


Perturabo on Remnant

by wyval



Category: RWBY, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Crossover, Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2018-09-20 11:57:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 61,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9490028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyval/pseuds/wyval
Summary: The Primarch, who dreams about building a human civilization that is everything the Emperor wants. A world where he can realize his dreams, where he can turn his exceptional intellect and talents to creation. A world where he may find a mortal father figure without an ulterior motive, and true companions. Less than serious, loosely connected snippets.





	1. Chapter 1

# First Encounter

He can feel himself being watched, similar yet different from the cold, otherworldly regard of the distant rent in the void. This is closer, more mundane perhaps, but similarly malignant and hungry. The small figure turns, senses scanning around, calculating angles, approach vectors, distance. His mind projects the tactical diagram before his inner vision, and he nods with a cold smirk as the attacker dashes from the trees just where he predicted it would.

For a fraction of a second, he hesitates - the being is completely unknown and alien, yet its shape looks familiar somehow. It stands on its hind limbs, towering above him, its black hide studded with jagged white bone-like growths, orange-red eyes shine with eternal malevolence from behind a white mask of bone. The black creature closes, slavering jaws open, a clawed arm aiming to disembowel him while the other is grabbing for his head.

Too slow. He explodes into motion, closing the distance swiftly, right fist hammering into the lower jaw of the creature, stopping it cold, before his left fist crashes into its stomach, driving the creature back. The thing manages to jump back before he can follow up, and now circles, eyeing him more warily - but with the same intensity, the same malignant hunger.

He feints, trying for the creature’s knee, and raises an eyebrow when the thing dodges, before he smirks; having to overcome an intelligent (or at least cunning) adversary is more interesting than putting down a simple abomination. He cocks his head aside as his senses quest around, before his smirk widens, nodding at his slavering adversary a moment before he explodes into motion, racing towards the edge of the clearing where two other ebony abominations loom from the shadows. His hand closes on a small stone while running, and flicks it at the head of the left-side abomination.

The creature is surprised by the speed of the makeshift projectile, and is too slow to dodge. With a crunch, the rock impacts the white bone mask, cracks spiderwebbing across it, as the monster staggers back with a pained howl. Its partner roars, leaping for the child, who evades, jumps onto its back, his hands grabbing the back and muzzle of the bone mask. With a shout and a sick, resounding crack, he turns the creature’s head around and leaps away before the body slumps bonelessly, a small, satisfied smile on his lips. Then he frowns, as the body starts evaporating into black flecks, and the two remaining beasts beat their chests and roar in fury as they charge him.

With a grim face, he runs at the one with the cracked mask, weathers a blow to his chest before he tears the offending appendage, his free hand sinking deep into the open maw of the creature before ripping out whatever he grabs within the shadowy thing’s innards. With a strangled, unearthly whine, the monster starts to evaporate into black flecks. The remaining one, his first attacker, hits him like a freight train, its claws scoring deep marks along his ribcage. He snarls, and headbutts the beast, staggering it as cracks form over its mask, the orange-red eyes becoming dizzy for a second. That second is all he needs, and a hammer blow from his two joined fists impacts the top of the thing’s head, fragments of white flying from the point of impact, along with flecks of the shadowy substance of the dying monster.

He stiffens when he senses something approach rapidly, and spins around to see two humans appear at the far edge of the clearing. The man’s clad in green and black, a sword-cane in hand, while the woman wears a long (seemingly impractical), dark dress of some kind, her hair in an elaborate bun. There is something about the two he can’t quite place - something familiar yet distinctly foreign; but at least the feeling is nowhere near as malevolent as the menace emanating from the distant eye among the stars.

The pair comes closer, their stance obviously wary and hesitant, their eyes scanning the treeline, alert for the dark creatures.

“Child, come with us, it is not safe here.” The woman’s voice is soothing, a tightly controlled anxiety underlying it - his eyes widen a bit as he realizes she’s not afraid _of_ him, but _for_ him.

“There aren’t any more of those things around.” Both are surprised at his voice, before relaxing a fraction, still alert for danger from the forest.

“Still, you’d better come with us - Forever Fall’s not a place for children. And you must be hungry.”

He considers for a moment, then nods.

“Do you have a name, child?” The man’s voice is calm, patient.

He thinks, trying to puzzle out something from the fog of his journey in the casket. His voice is … hesitant, but firming up when he says the name.

“The Fourth. Perturabo.”

“Pleased to meet you, Perturabo. I’m Ozpin, and this is Salem.”

 

* * *

 

 

# The Giant and the Hunter

He’s glaring at his companion, trying to communicate his vast displeasure, hurt and anger. In response, the other shrugs, his lips twist in a bittersweet smile, before he sips from his mug.

“You know we have to deal with that beast.” A nod from the giant, accompanied by a growl, indicating his displeasure at stating the obvious. “The town also needs to be defended, and I do not think that bastard would fail to send its progeny against the people here.”

A flash of fury in the ice-blue eyes, as the giant nods. His voice is deep, gravelly, carrying an inexorable momentum behind it.

“Why not reverse our roles, then? Why are you going to end that dragon, while I have to stay content with killing the rabble?”

The hunter takes another sip from his mug, smiles.

“You know it is said that every hero must confront and best his dragon to achieve his destiny.”

The giant snorts.

“I believe, old friend, usually that dragon is nowhere near so literal. Now, the real reason. You know my patience is wearing thin.”

“Honestly? We both know you could slay that dragon - but we also know that even with my abilities, I could not hold the town, not without having more hunters. I do not have your instincts for that, my friend. Maybe if we arrived earlier, maybe if we had managed to complete those marvelous walls you designed, or if the other hunters arrived...”

The giant nods slowly, reluctance radiating from his frame. The hunter takes another sip from the mug.

“Even if I agree, I do not have to like it. Anyway, when are you leaving?”

“Sundown.”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The giant watches his friend vanish among the trees, heading towards the mountain, the dragon, their possibility for gaining time; time to prepare and likely turn the tide.

He checks the people gathered at the town square, selects his messengers, then goes to the opening in the wall, prepares for the inevitable onslaught.

The dark sky to the west erupts with viridian and orange-red lights, clashing again and again, thunder rolling towards the town. He nods to himself, and rallies his men, as the first black shapes burst from the trees.

These are just rabble, contemptible, easy kills. He smashes them apart with short, powerful swings, issuing orders to the defenders as the siege starts in earnest. His mind is constantly analyzing, finding patterns, almost with preternatural foresight, using his instincts to guide his people, reinforcing weak spots, encouraging them, keeping their morale high, preventing as much casualties as he can, directing the usage of Nature’s Wrath where it is the most useful.

The night grinds on, the waves of Grimm unrelenting. If not for his example and leadership, the defenders would have fallen already. He keeps them alive and fighting, inspiring less by words and more by example. He sometimes wonders why his gruff, blunt, terse style is liked. Still, it does the job - and the still-flashing lights on the horizon help.

The Grimm are starting to get kills - small wonder, their Alphas came out to play in force. He smiles, darkly amused - behind the ferocity, behind the killing urge, he can sense their desperate need to overwhelm them before his friend finishes his task. He raises his voice, shouts orders, then strides forward, challenging the approaching colossus.

The beady eyes of the huge beast shine with malevolence as it tries to crush him with its charge. He sidesteps, his maul shattering first one front knee of the thing, then the other. The Goliath sways, falls forward, and a moment later, starts turning into black specks as his maul shatters its head. He roars triumphantly, the sound echoed by the defenders, who seem to have rejuvenated with the sight of his triumph.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

He is furious when his friend is returned. The desire to smash something, anything is almost overpowering - he is aware that his knowledge is greater, or at least much different from those of the others. Still, he cannot seem to find a solution with the present technical level to make him walk again without assistance. Every time he sees him limp around on his crutches, his fury burns hotter and hotter.

He considers delving into his theories related to Aura and the otherworldly, terrible Eye watching from the sky. The possibility is there, he thinks - then frowns. He is unsure...about himself, about the quality of his will. If he is not strong enough to think clearly, suppressing his anger in such a serious situation, does he dare meddle with things beyond his certainties? No. Maybe at some point in the future, when his iron will is truly that.

A solution presents itself, from half-remembered schematics glimpsed during his time in the capsule. He works frantically, drawing and redrawing plans, calculating angles, considering loads, dimensions, construction materials, time.

He laughs, an honest, deep-belly laugh - the first time since far, far too long.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The giant and the hunter are standing side by side, the latter leaning on his cane for support, as they watch the tall tower take shape. It took years, but the mechanism is running, and their project is slowly, surely expanding. Soon, it will be so much more than a mere empty tower, conceived for a singular purpose - the hunter wants it to be a place of learning, where they can train the future generations of defenders. He doesn’t particularly begrudge that his giant companion also ensured that he would be there for quite a number of those generations, and in good health, even. He did not ask for the gift, but accepted it in the spirit it was given.

The giant turns to his companion, noting the greying hair, and the hunter sips his mug.

“What will you name it, Ozpin?”

“Beacon would sound fine, Perturabo. Don’t you think?”

 

* * *

 

 

# Fever dream

She did not expect the soothing, swirling dance of light and color - even though she decidedly preferred it to the endless black. The darkness was still present, she could feel those primal urges and need somewhere at the edge of her consciousness, where the occasional flash of orange-red eyes and bizarre bone-white masks let her know exactly what awaited her. Not that she intended to give in - she would fight with her all, just as she did for the past several years. Here, she simply had to exercise the immense willpower she possessed to control and defeat the intruding presence; and judging by the mental landscape, she was succeeding well enough to allow herself a small, satisfied smirk.

She thought back on the battle with the Grimm, her mind replaying the scenes, trying to find where she made the mistake, how the mindless beasts could bring down a Huntress as powerful as her. She simply could not see it, there was not a sign of a wound, no pain in her body, no trace of blood or scars on her pale flesh. Despite all that, she knew that at some point during the whirlwind of chaotic melee, something had hit her, and she cursed herself for the overconfidence - sure, she could take them all, even the Goliath, but at what price? Why didn’t she arrange and wait for backup? It would have been the sensible, rational thing to do, the town was not in that serious a danger anyway. Her smirk turned bitter, as she dwelled on her future prospects.

She missed them both, she realized - the three of them worked so well, have grown so close ever since that fateful meeting in the forest. She loved how they were slowly but perceivably changing their world, really making a difference, stemming the tide of darkness from overwhelming humanity. And with a bitter chuckle, she realized how she would never see the fruit of that labor, never enjoy their company again - and all because of a single, tiny mistake of not knowing about this type of Grimm, of not being quick enough to kill it, not being strong enough to snuff out its existence.

The swirling colors slowly pulsed, as hues not seen by mortal eyes intruded, and her mind recoiled at the sheer power of the alien presence (presences?) intruding into her mindscape - then she stiffened as she felt the primal speck of orange-flecked darkness abase itself, a scavenger making space for an apex predator. She could feel amusement from the alien presence, tinged with curiosity, as it gently sampled her soul, felt for her agony - and she shivered as it pulsed a delighted understanding, a wicked satisfaction at a guess proving true. The presence, the being sharpened somehow, and she felt a part of her mindscape change, as a female figure emerged from the kaleidoscope of lights - a familiar but markedly different figure, and as she looked into the pale, bone-white face with the purplish lines creeping towards the hellish, black-red eyes, she thought she understood. This was what Fate had dealt her - and she narrowed her eyes, determination flaring up.

The alien presence seemed satisfied with her quick response, and more females stepped out from the whirlpool of unnameable colors, all looking alike and different, all possibilities she could grasp, if she was strong enough. She felt like laughing - here she was, weaving a fantasy about her ability to defy Fate, to choose her own destiny. Her laughter cut off abruptly, as the presence seemed to split open, to make way for another similar yet also different facet. Why would she not embrace the concept, why should she just lay down and let herself be carried by the whims of an uncaring universe? No, she would not allow that - she fought all her life, she would continue to fight, she would never, ever stop as long as she existed. There were things, people worth fighting for, she thought as her two companions flashed in her mind’s eye, and she could feel their approval at her determination.

With that approval, came the warm feeling she rarely allowed herself to dwell upon - one she cherished for years, knowing that the object of the feeling was perhaps unaware (a pair of cold blue eyes shining with humor and affection flashed into her mind), but it was difficult to know. She suspected that he was still adorably clueless about how humans in general worked, his entire being setting him apart - and she wanted to include him, to teach him, to have time with him. After all, she did deserve some measure of happiness after a lifetime spent selflessly in defense of others who rarely acknowledged her - even if her two companions praised and relied on her so much, trusting her to keep things running while they were doing their usual diggings into half-forgotten myths and legends.

Still, the pain of handling diplomacy, coordinating the Hunters, training them, worrying about the two men - in the end, it was always worth it when they returned. One would simply nod at her, as trusted old comrades-in-arms often did, before sipping from that damned mug of his, relaxing and simply enjoying the company, conveying his respect for her skills and efforts with subtle gestures and posture. The other was … different. She shivered again as she recalled that cold, calculating yet compassionate gaze boring deep into her eyes, and she could see the embers of passion, of warm human emotions behind the cool, detached intelligence; and as always, it gave her a wicked thrill that she could spark those to flame.

Images, memories flashed by, reflected in the scintillating swirl of eagerly pulsing colors, and she narrowed her eyes, as she tried to decipher the promise, the offer radiating from them. Sure, it was tempting to spit in Fate’s face, to wrest control of your destiny, to overpower and excise the primal darkness of the Grimm infesting her - but there was no way this was for free. Nothing on this scale was free, one always needed to sacrifice something to achieve anything worthwhile. She sensed the approval and delight of the alien presence, its chuckle a warm shiver alongside her spine. Then the images came.

Scenes of death and destruction where she was laughing over the ruins of the Four Kingdoms, a triumphant queen holding court over all she surveyed, her face a mask of seething, barely controlled fury. Scenes of Remnant erupting into life, a tidal wave of fecundity overwhelming, erasing the Grimm in a wave of noxious joy and love, as she laughed with the voice of a kindly old grandmother tending to her garden. A shift showed her weaving her plots from the shadows, cackling like a vulture over each success of her pawns over Grimm and human alike, her reach ever extending, her web slowly growing to trap the whole planet. Then she felt as if her heart stopped when she saw the luminous being wearing her face - and the neverending, always-changing quest for sensual thrills, a giant man always at her side, passion flaring from his once-cold blue eyes.

She shivered as the primal instincts from the Grimm darkness pulled on her imagination, flooding her with images, memories, wishes - everything that she ever wanted and planned to enjoy or show the beloved Primarch. And she considered for but a moment the price asked of her - considering how many people he pulled into his circle with his sheer presence, she had to make a move before anyone else could, or before he was taken from her. That would not happen. He would be hers. She would see to that, and no power could stop or deny her.

She nodded, her mind fixated on the experiences and thrills of the promising images. Yes, for that, to have that, she had already sacrificed so much. She would gladly sacrifice more.

The clouds racing over the hospital flashed with unsane, immaterial colors as Salem opened her eyes, the reflection of a terrible Eye dancing in their depths, her laughter the sensual caress of a sharp knife gliding over the skin, laden with the promise of forbidden, insane delight. She would sacrifice all to have Perturabo for herself - and the warp have mercy on those seeking to bar her way.

 

* * *

 

#  Bitter leavetaking

Ozpin’s cane-sword flashes forward, impaling an Ursa Major’s head. His movements blur as he speeds forward, dealing death with every precise lunge and slash. A black mist of evaporating Grimm surrounds him, and the remaining beasts hesitate for a second, and he flashes a knowing smirk at them.

The immense figure crashes into the mass of Grimm, sending Alphas flying with each swing of his maul, the strikes precise, metronomic - as if a machine was doing it, and not a post-human being. Still, Ozpin wonders for a second. He has known Perturabo for a long time now, they fought and bled together, allied to a common, noble goal, and throughout it all, he has never seen the man like this, not even when they faced that dragon.

Perturabo’s usually cold blue eyes burn with actinic glow, his vast bulk radiating deadly focus and a vast, void-dark, all-consuming wrath. He does not waste breath on roaring, cursing, bantering - his whole being is centered on destroying their enemies, and Ozpin focuses again, his own considerable talents and skills barely enough to keep up with the cold fury of Perturabo’s advance. Against either one of them, even the hundreds of Grimm would stand an even chance at best. Against both of them, in this state? The mere thought is laughable, and Ozpin does indeed laugh, a bitter, hollow sound, as the last of the Grimm falls to their fury.

“She played us. I had thought she might oppose our plans, but I never saw this coming.” Ozpin’s voice is like his laugh, empty, flat. “Forgive me, my friend. All the wonders you built, all the results we gave them, and they spit upon it, to preserve their power. I thought she would...”

Perturabo’s vast hand alights on Ozpin’s shoulder, the giant’s voice full of pain.

“I know, my friend. It was the three of us who decided she’ be the best for that position. Do not even dare to consider this as your own mistake.” The Primarch squares his immense shoulders, and heads towards the burning wreck of their plane. “I know you do not like it, but I strongly suggest we gather the Maidens.”

Ozpin’s eyes narrow in thought, as his mind races along the plans he discussed in the years of close partnership. His voice is low, hesitant.

“You mean to make a statement, cross that line you never wanted to cross.”

Perturabo’s gaze simultaneously burns and freezes him.

“I see no other choice, Ozpin. If you do, tell me!” The human slowly shakes his head, and Perturabo smiles, a bitter, hate-filled showing of teeth. “She accused us, me, of being power-hungry, meddling tyrants. With your help, I intend to prove her correct.”

Ozpin sighs, considers once more, finds no viable alternative. He nods, and leaves to his preparations, while Perturabo fiddles with a device he hoped never to use on Remnant.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Weeks pass, as Ozpin and Perturabo head back towards Beacon, rumors swirling around them. Ozpin is worried for his friend - the Primarch takes it seemingly in stride, but he knows him too well. The giant post-human’s iron will is on the brink of snapping, and Ozpin fears it will snap much harder than back in that godforsaken outpost. He fears for his friend’s mind - and prepares for the possibility of having to stand up to him. 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Salem watches from her command podium as Perturabo strides forward towards her lines. For a moment, she thinks he came alone - then four figures emerge from the shadows of the trees. She suppresses an urge to laugh. Their minds must have snapped finally - five of them, against her thousands? And that’s not even counting her trump card, her beasts. Not that she would let them kill him, no. Never that, never him. Ozpin would die, today, and with his influence removed, she could likely mould that wonderful, exquisitely sharp mind of Perturabo to what it was meant to be. It was foreseen.

The Primarch stops, shoulders his maul, his voice echoes over the whole vast field.

“You are standing on ground we bought with our sweat and blood from the Grimm. Your forefathers toiled and died to help us build the wonders you carelessly discarded in your madness. You are beset by madness, led by a madwoman following false promises. I never wanted to rule, only to build, but you are leaving me with no choice. Still, Ozpin convinced me to be sensible. So. I will forget every face who departs now.”

Commotion in the ranks, whispers, mutters,  _ movement _ . Salem jumps to her feet, hissing orders, her shadows hastening to obey, to somehow stem the trickle of cowards before it becomes more. Perturabo speaks again, his voice ringing over the field, cold fury dripping from his voice.

“While we stand here, Ozpin and his hunters fight for you against the Grimm - the only enemy we should be fighting. Last chance - if you do not leave now, you will face Remnant unleashed in a way like never before!”

The trickle does swell, and even Salem’s best and hardest men are not enough to completely stop it. She centers herself, closes her eyes, focuses. When she opens them again, a blood-red glow shines from within, twin mirrors to the terrible, swirling maelstrom visible only to a chosen few on the planet.

She throws her head back and howls. The Grimm and her people answer in kind, throwing themselves forward to drag down the Primarch.

“So be it then, Salem.” Even with the power filling her, even across the distance, over thousands of humans and coalescing Grimm, she flinches from that void-cold blue glare boring into her very soul, analyzing, dissecting, weighing her, finding her wanting. Perturabo nods back towards his four companions, and Salem’s world shatters as the five rush her army.

The very elements turn on her forces, battering man and Grimm alike with their unstoppable force. At a motion from one woman, the ground crushes and swallows those who walk on it. Another gestures as plants and animals burst forth from seemingly everywhere, hamstringing, entwining, consuming everything in their path. The third immolates everything in her path. Stormclouds gather over the fourth, darkening the sky, and thunder rumbles in the heights before it starts raining lightning. 

These things do not faze Salem much. She herself can wield similar powers now, thanks to her new patrons, who were kind enough to underestimate her, allowing her to consume them. No, what rattles her and shakes her to the core is the Primarch coming towards her. His movement is deceptively slow-seeming, the inexorable march of a glacier, and the measured swings of his maul convey that power, that weight to anything that seeks to bar his way. All the while, his gaze never leaves Salem, holding her captive, rendering her unable to act until it’s almost too late.

Dust-alloyed maul meets warp-forged blade with a thunderous, concussive impact. For an eternal second, Perturabo looks deep into Salem’s eyes, searching for the old companion, not finding her beyond the swirling images of the terrible eye in the void.

“As I feared.” His left hand grabs something on his vambrace, a silent wave of nothing expanding from him, and Salem shrieks with a chorus of fading voices as she falls back, the Primarch following with measured steps. She thrashes for the transcendent, ethereal power, similar yet different from what she always felt from Perturabo, but finds nothing, and feels him closing. Salem reaches then for the other power, her skin bleaching bone-white, red markings creeping up her face, as the Grimm howl in triumph.

She wills them to carry her - away from the fury of the elements, those warp-damned Maidens, and more, away from him. She needs time to heal, to plan, but she will not give up. Not before he sits at her side.

 

* * *

 

 

#  Birth of a titan

The vast chamber is filled with sounds - people shouting, cursing, rattling weapons, hurling invectives at each other, the whole building teetering on the precipice of bloodshed. The clamour is centered around a white-clad man, whose magnificent mustache bristles with anger, his knuckles white on the grip of the slender blade belted on his side. He knows he offended most of them, kicked over their schemes and power plays, and they want his blood now - figuratively, if not literally.

The man draws strength from the thought of his son, and the object of the child’s sincere adoration. He does not share the feeling, well, not to that extent. He certainly values that other, as do many people in the Four Kingdoms. What may set him apart from the masses of adoring fans is that he does not care one whit about the other’s prodigious combat skill, or the brilliance of his tactical mind. No, he admires and feels kinship with his vision. For that vision, for that man, he is willing to risk his life, his company, his family - for those principles, he stands his ground.

The angry shouting and recriminations become painfully loud, but even that din is silenced when a blade is drawn with a metallic rasp. The white-clad man raises an eyebrow, as he stares towards the source of the sound, mouth quirking in a small smile under the mustache as he sees the blade pointed towards his heart, a theatrical gesture for now. He allows his smirk to widen, and crosses his arms, the white snowflakes of his family crest visible on his lapels, intertwined with the stylized grey skull emblem of his absent friend.

“You had no right, Albert! How dare you drag foreign influence in Mantle’s internal affairs?”

“This is an outrage, you are out of your mind, we will not be under the sway of a lackey!”

“You betray everything Mantle stands for, Albert!”

The clamour rises to a crescendo, threatening to overwhelm him - then the immense double doors on the far side of the chamber crash inwards with a deafening crack. Heavy footsteps reverberate across the chamber, as Perturabo marches towards the podium, towards Albert. Behind him, the arched hallway is littered with bodies wearing the uniform of the Senatorial Guard, and Albert sighs a little when he sees most of them moving, a Hunter lifting them in the air with a wave of her riding crop. The doorway frames a slight, grey-green clad Hunter, who casually sips his ever-present mug, eyes coldly tracking across the senators. On any other day, this would be enough to chill most people. Today, Ozpin and Glynda would be a welcome alternative.

Perturabo closes, his fury almost literally chilling the vast chamber, the maul in his hand sparking occasionally, the blue eyes shining with merciless intent, void-cold determination. The Primarch reaches the podium, nods towards Albert before he turns to the Senate of Mantle, barely-restrained fury resonating in his voice, an insane rage scarcely held back by iron will.

“Betrayers, each and every damn one of you. Have you forgotten so quickly? Salem and her allies almost managed to topple our civilization barely a decade ago, and you are back to squabbling like children? We believed you would be worthy of the name of your Kingdom, that you would take up our mantle of leadership!” The very air seems to shake from the Primarch’s fury, made all more terrifying because he is not screaming; his voice is clipped, precise - yet not even duelling Salem stoke his fury to such heights. 

“Everyone who fought Salem, every soul who bled and died battling the Grimm trusted you to live up to the principles you yourselves outlined at the first Vytal Conference! Do you still remember them, betrayers? How dare you look down on people who shed blood and tears alongside your fellow humans? How dare you claim  _ ownership  _ of them? This ends. Now.”

“Lord Perturabo, we strongly protest...” The voice was shrill, anonymous, from somewhere back in the crowd. The Lord of Dust turned with slow menace towards it, his eyes glaring with laser-like intensity.

“Silence. The time of protests and finger-pointing is past. I never wanted this burden, but you do not seem to leave me a choice. As of this moment, Mantle is no more.” The Primarch’s voice filled the vast chamber. “This kingdom will shoulder the burden of defending Remnant with blades against the Grimm and foes more insidious, and with science to build a better future! Let the citizens know - I will allow those who will not stand by me to depart the Kingdom. Let the people know that those who stand with me shall be unremembered, unremarked, their every deed, every skill, every breath turned towards helping others, their lives spent in service to Remnant first and foremost. We will become Atlas, and hold the world on our shoulders!”

 

* * *

 

 

#  City Hunt

The city was beautiful. Pristine, gleaming buildings laid out with perfect geometrical precision, small pools and parks serving as counterpoints for the human factor. The smooth lanes made for efficient, quiet, quick travelling for the workforce, while the playgrounds, amusement parks, and meadows were a constant delight to the children. The inhabitants liked the pleasantly warm city, so much different from the icy, cold country most of them called home. They were volunteers, all of them taking part in the latest effort and calculated risk the four kingdoms undertook against the ever-present Grimm threat. Home to thousands of people, Mountain Glenn stood as a defiant challenge against the monstrous tide.

And, as everyone knew, the Grimm could never resist such challenges.

The defenders made only one mistake in their calculations - a group of people allying themselves with the Grimm was not something they seriously prepared for. Thus, the explosions and flames erupting at night took them by surprise for a few crucial minutes, that allowed the Grimm to breach the walls of the city.

The horde of beasts flooded the city streets, howling, braying, eager for fear and flesh alike. The smarter, older Grimm-kin certainly wondered a second or two at the open, clear streets, the lack of any internal defenses...before the vengeful will of their mistress drove them onwards, searching for prey, setting them against the buildings which housed the panicking inhabitants. As the beasts breached the gates of several buildings at once, driven to frenzy by the terror they sensed from inside, the city was illuminated by a single flare. And Mountain Glenn answered.

Pressure sensors registered the heavier Grimm, and concealed pits swallowed them with well-oiled swiftness, before fire engulfed the trapped monsters, burning them to ash. Blue flashes of lightning arced from the CCTV cameras, finding the nearest invaders with uncanny precision. Those terror-radiating, breached houses simply crumbled inwards, burying the Grimm inside, before precisely placed charges exploded, sending the fragments scything through the nearby Grimm, wiping the street clean of them. The defenders appeared as if from underground or from the very buildings themselves, and the monster-filled streets turned into shooting ranges. Armored vehicles rumbled forward from their concealed silos, spewing fire over the beasts. Hidden mechanisms whined with effort as whole buildings shifted and changed from innocuous houses to defensive strongpoints bristling with weaponry.

The invading horde was being massacred at a pace that would have turned back almost any foe, and even the Grimm teetered on the brink of retreat for a minute - before an enraged, insane shriek of unbridled fury tore across the minds of the defenders. The mistress of the horde arrived, and in her wake, the automated defenses failed or were destroyed by her might.

Another flare illuminated the night for a brief moment, the green light swallowed by unnatural darkness. The commander of the city knew his duty, just like his people - they had to hold, to keep the invaders tied up in the city until their lord arrived. They fought with mechanical precision, with desperate fury, with undying hatred towards the Grimm. They fought, they held the tide - but they bled, and they died. More and more beasts stalked the city streets, and a Goliath was battering its way toward the command center. The sky above was filled with Nevermores and Griffons throwing themselves at the human aircrafts, tracers and needle-thin beams of coherent light weaving a deadly tapestry at the tranquil night sky.

Salem was howling with fury and glee as her blade and claws reaped a bloody toll from her old flame’s little toy soldiers, her psyche drinking in their impotent rage, the brief moments of terror and the still-controlled fear. Her little pets were having such a fun time now that she did what a good mother was supposed to do, and allowed them access to their favorite toys. She flung her fire with one hand, and watched with mesmerised glee as an armored building melted down into slag, the humans inside burning to ash. Another crossing, another strongpoint - the tentacles of her mind reached out, burrowing into the building, ripping it apart so her cohorts could get to the defenders with fang and claw. She smiled beatifically, as the Grimm tore apart human and faunus alike, and she stopped suppressing her laughter - what a magnificent way to announce her return to her old flame! The nerve of that man, to think that she would be stopped by mere mortals and unfeeling machinery!

Her instincts screamed a warning, and she threw herself aside, as a small explosion tore into the street where she stood a fraction of a second earlier. With a hateful screech, she turned and glared at the tall, muscular Hunter striding towards her unflinchingly, an oversized pistol in his hands. She noted his uniform, well aware of the style and markings preferred by her would-be sweetheart. Her mouth quirks in what might be charitably called the rictus grin of a corpse. The human will make a fine welcoming gift to her old friend, when he finally arrives.

She blurs forward, aiming a lazy thrust towards the Hunter, knowing that it is still enough to put down anyone - well, maybe not Ozpin or Perturabo. The blade is deflected, and before she can overcome the surprise, the oversized pistol booms again, the explosion throwing her off, and she can feel wet heat on her neck. Her hand raises, fingers caressing the slender neck, bringing the incontrovertible proof to her astonished eyes.

The force and fury of her scream shatters windows for almost half a mile. Grimm and human alike are driven to their knees as the psychic echo knifes into their brain, driving the first berserk with bloodlust, while paralyzing the second for a few eternal heartbeats. Well, except for the Hunter right before her. He evades her attack, then parries two more, before bringing the pistol up again. Salem’s hand blurs forward, and the Hunter grunts and sways in pain as the limb is torn off in a welter of blood. She spins closer to finish him, sends him a cruel smile and he replies with a headbutt that staggers her. The Hunter retreats, swaying from the blood loss, his Aura trying desperately to stem the bleeding, to preserve his life. Salem closes, intent on finishing the play, but the Hunter manages to dodge, her talons carving bloody gashes into his right side, ripping apart flesh, muscle, and bones alike.

The short pursuit ends predictably - the Hunter on his back, laying on the street, Salem towering over him, relishing the taste of his blood, the agony exploding in his mind as her claws dig inside his ribcage, slowly inching towards his heart. Still, there is something odd in his expression. She stops, frowns - then realizes, the insane human is trying to laugh. She extends her senses, and stiffens. There are others in Mountain Glenn, presences she should have noted sooner, if she had not focused on the impertinent Hunter who dared to wound her. Her pets are scattered before a blonde woman, who marches in high-heeled boots, sending Grimm flying with quick swipes of her riding crop, her gaze disturbingly focusing on her even across the distance and the fact that she’s not physically able to see her. Another woman is a flash of fire among the defenders, her bow raining arrows of fire down on her pets, the embers of courage erupting in flames wherever the black-haired woman walks.

She scoffs at them, across the distance - nothing more than would-be usurpers, to be discarded when her old flame comes to his senses...and that thought causes her eyes to widen. How did she miss him, even with the chaos in the city? She quests with her senses again, and finds him close, much closer than she would prefer. The beautiful, icy sculpture of his will is vastly colder and sharper compared to her memories of him. She kicks the Hunter at her feet to silence his gurgling, painful laughter, as the Lord of Dust looms from the flames of his city.

She sends a coy smile towards him, a willing maiden towards a welcome suitor - and is physically rocked back by the sheer focus directed at her. Once again he strides towards her, like on a field so long ago … but this time, she blurs forward, just as the dozen Alphas she summoned dogpile the towering Primarch. There is a brief moment where Perturabo seemingly struggles with the beasts and Salem, then Dust-infused symbols erupt on the Primarch’s armor, his gauntlets flare with dark light as he catches the warpblade of his foe. The two lok gazes over the blade for an eternal second, then Salem gasps as Perturabo grins mirthlessly, blue-red lines creeping up his gauntlets, toward the blade. A blinding flash of light rends apart the dark night, precursor to a deafening explosion as the blade shatters, flinging away Salem and turning the nearby Grimm into specks of swiftly evaporating blackness.

The Mistress of the Grimm snarls towards her hated foe, her beloved rival, then she bounds away, explosive shells tracking her, barely missing. The Primarch stops firing and steps to the still-alive, ruined Hunter.

“You did well, James. Do not worry now - you will live to fight another day.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

#  Both of you, dance like you want to win!

He surveys the battlefield with narrowed eyes, mind calculating angles of approach, trajectories, considers and discards tactic after tactic. What he considers his heritage, the wealth of knowledge he can access with ever-increasing control does not exactly offer much help. Oh, he does know and recognize the foe, his mind brimming with ways to defeat them - the problem is, none of those approaches would work on this field of battle.

He glances back towards his old friend, eyes focusing on the still-weaker leg of the man - he knows very well that there are maybe a handful of people apart from him who could take Ozpin on in battle, but to him, it’s obvious, and his senses confirm his deduction that their enemies are also aware of Ozpin’s weakness. Thus, he does what duty and friendship demand of him; with a minuscule nod towards the man, who returns it before sipping from his mug, he turns back towards the field of slaughter.

He takes stock, notes the difference in how he and his army react to the inhuman, graceful enemy - his forces focus on the latter, while he concentrates on the former. Instincts war with reason for a precious few moments, before a will of iron forces back ingrained responses, focusing forward again, assessing the first movement of the enemy.

The xenos are lithe and graceful, their movements deceptively slow, evoking the ancient majesty and wonders of their kind - he knows that his awed forces are seeing into the well of time that spawned these so similar yet utterly foreign abominations. His mind analyzes their movements, noting the minuscule imperfections only a being like him could spot; plans and tactics whirl in his brain, presenting and discarding solutions one after the other.

The rhythm is now faster, martial - the ethereal chorus of the xeno stirs the souls of his people, invoking visions of glory and might, the utter dominance of the xeno race over all they survey. Grudgingly, he holds back still - the effect is not actually invasive psykery, simply an illusion of the senses, projected by creatures who spent millennia honing their skills. Admittedly, the effect is impressive - xeno they may be, but underestimating them would be a fatal mistake he cannot afford, he will not afford.

The beat changes again, the movements frantic, aggressive, and an almost permeable (blood)lust fills the mind and heart of those present. The ethereal chorus and strange instruments build to a crescendo, as the xeno leap and cavort on the field of battle, his eyes tracking and often predicting their pattern. He has them. He knows they can be beaten. The opening salvo ends in a riot of approving noise, and he permits himself a small, genuine smile as he considers his options.

A brief command from him, then he nods towards his partner, and they enter the field of battle. There’s a second of pause, then the music starts, a frantic, lively pace. He and his partner whirl through the motions, perfect counterpoints to each other - his movement cold, precise, strangely graceful despite his bulk, hers a vibrant, passionate flash of flames. Together they weave a harmony of frost and flame as the music spurs them on, effortlessly evoking the constant struggle for survival, the indomitable will of mankind to persevere, to overcome any difficulty in their path - while never, ever forgetting who stood by them and against them.

He feels her beside himself as a living flame, burning eyes gazing deeply into void-cold ice, the difference in height a moot point as she dances on feet of flames, effortlessly keeping pace, following his lead despite not practising this particular tactic. It feels like a subjective eternity, but lasts only a few minutes, before they both stand still as the last triumphant note of the music fades.

The crowd roars in approval, and even some of the xenos nod their heads reluctantly. He glances at his partner, and gives her a small, genuine smile. Her answering smile and the sparks in her eyes seem to ignite the whole chamber.

“Thank you for the experience, my lord Perturabo, you are a wonderful dancer. Hopefully we can do it again soon.”

“As you wish, Maiden Fall.” For a fraction of a moment, her reaction stuns him, then his eyes narrow dangerously on Ozpin, smugly sipping his mug on his throne. Perturabo’s gaze pointedly fixates on the shape of the throne, before returning to Ozpin, as his lips peel back in a smug grin.

_ Yes, you totally deserved that one, my friend _ .

 

* * *

 

 

#  Special initiation

“Honestly, I do not like it.” The voice is cold, measured, yet there is an underlying tone of worry in it. “She is too young.”

“She is of age, my friend. It is her decision.” A deep, sonorous voice answers. “I think it is better to assure her of our support than protect her too much.”

The man looks up at his friend, a small smile visible behind his bushy moustache. 

“Well, you would know more about being overprotective towards women, I’ll grant you that.”

The answering glare of ice-blue eyes would have sent others running for the hills or frozen them on the spot, but he stoically bears it, his small smile still in place as Perturabo frowns, and concedes with a nod and a snort.

“I refuse to take any blame for ensuring that my comrades and friends are provided with the best training and tech I can come up with as they perform their tasks. And I never actually hindered any of them in choosing their path, did I?”

The moustached man ruefully laughs, and shakes his head.

“No, I guess you didn’t. Still, I am her father, and I wanted her to take over from me when I retire. Still, I shall consider your point.”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The slim girl enters through the double doors into the vast cavern. On the opposing side, an iron-clad giant stands - the one she has to defeat to gain her dream; the giant is different from the one she expected, but that does not worry her, in fact, she starts smiling. The two people in the chamber are a study in contrasts - her slenderness to his towering bulk, her elegance against his drabness, sword versus maul. They give each other a respectful nod, then with an excited grin on her lips and sparkling eyes she blurs forward with the boom of displaced air. The observing man from the balcony is an experienced duelist, yet even he has trouble tracking the young woman’s attack. The giant obviously has no such problems, and the sword clashes on the maul with a reverberating sound. The observer’s eyebrow raises, as the slim woman manages to hold the weapon lock against the giant’s brute strength before she flips back, dodging the grabbing hand by a hair.

The woman nods respectfully again, excited sparks dancing in her eyes. The giant shifts his posture, extending his free hand, beckoning her. The observer’s hands grab the railing, as the woman again blurs forward, and this time, he can only perceive the afterimage of her form, and the cavern echoes the staccato rhythm of sword meeting maul. The giant holds his place for a minute, then two - an unflinching iron statue, parrying all strikes. The observer knows that the woman cannot, should not be able to overwhelm the giant’s defense this way - thus, he’s surprised when the giant suddenly moves, dodging a cunningly reversed strike of the sword that somehow got past the maul.

The woman backflips, her eyes shining with pride and excitement, her laughter a sound of pure joy. Glyphs spin around her, illuminating the cavern with their inner light. The giant grunts appreciatively, as the woman’s Semblance turns his own massive weight and size against him, trying to pin him in place. Ice spreads on the ground, speeding towards him, encasing his legs. The young woman falls to one knee, pale face flushed with exertion - and maybe something else as well -, then a white glyph starts spinning and expanding at her side. As it reaches almost the height of the giant, the glyph flashes white, blinding the observer for a fraction of a second. When he next sees, an immense, two-legged creature stands beside the young woman.

She smiles proudly, triumphantly at the blue-white Alpha Beowolf-lookalike, which bows its head and nuzzles his mistress for a brief second, before both wolf and woman blur forward as one towards the ice-encased giant struggling against the manacles and gravity. The observer spots the minuscule smirk on the giant’s face a fraction of a second before the icy manacles evaporate in an orange flash, red Dust inscribing runes on the giant’s armor. A huge hand catches the leaping wolf’s head, then the summoned creature shatters the floor as Perturabo slams it down, stunning it for the moment before stomping down hard. 

Glyphs flare up around Perturabo, their white light obscured when his attacker jumps from glyph to glyph, seemingly striking him from everywhere at once - yet none of the strikes find anything but the maul or armor, as he holds his own, analyzing her movement, trying to find the pattern - not an easy task, even for him, as she has prepared well for this match and thought she had his measure. She is not totally wrong, and Perturabo allows himself a small smile as they lock weapons again for a second.

The young woman smirks, and Perturabo feels a slight pinprick on his hand. He smiles when he sees the small blade extending from the hilt of her sword, and nods appreciatively towards her.

“My turn.” Perturabo rumbles, and the young woman’s eyes widen, as she’s thrown back, black markings shining on the Lord of Dust’s vambraces. The Primarch advances inexorably, a wall of iron hemming in his opponent, depriving her of space, grounding her, cornering her. His small smile is not so small now, as she puts up a valiant defense, glyphs flaring in rainbow colours, her lithe form blitzing around him, trying to break out, bypass and backstab him, to no avail. Still, he muses, the fact that she can avoid being completely overwhelmed is a notable accomplishment. Her efforts and skills are certainly laudable, even if the outcome was never in much doubt. 

The young woman is panting, out of breath, eyes sparkling happily, her face flushed as she brings up her sword to a salute when she concedes the bout, struggling to contain her laughter.

“You will not be an Atlasian specialist” Perturabo rumbles, his voice cold, distant, analytical. The young woman pales, she opens her mouth to protest, to rail, but Perturabo speaks on. “If you are interested, I do have a need for skilled people, though.”

Up on the observing balcony, Erwin Schnee flinches as the happy scream of his elder daughter echoes off the walls, then he grins at seeing Perturabo’s slightly poleaxed face when Winter jumps on his neck and plants a kiss on his face, then buries her face in his chestplate. The Primarch’s head slowly, menacingly turns towards Erwin, cold blue eyes glaring at the human, who stops holding back his laughter.

_ You brought that upon yourself, my friend. I told you how she felt. _

 

* * *

 

 

#  Beacon, interrupted

Beacon Academy was perhaps the safest location on current-day Remnant. It was designed, built, and improved by the Lord of Dust himself, staffed by a somewhat eccentric but definitively competent cadre of Hunters, headed by the legendary Ozpin no less. A constant presence of Atlasian specialists and researchers, the regular visits of a certain Maiden all added to create a place that both the savvy Grimm breeds and occasional White Fang fanatics learned to avoid like the plague. Thus, one can forgive Glynda Goodwitch for halting her lecture to a promising class of first-year students when a thunderous detonation sounded from the direction of Beacon Tower, and a half-second later the blastwave shattered the reinforced windows.

With a flick of her riding crop, Glynda stopped the hail of shards before they became an actual danger to her students, halted for a moment to put a reassuring hand on the shoulder of a rabbit faunus who cringed and had her hands over her ears. The teacher exchanged a glance with the immense wall of muscle who stepped to his hurting friend, whispering comforting words. Then, with quick, deliberate strides Deputy Headmistress Glynda Goodwitch was off towards the source of the explosion. A pause at the door, and at her gesture, the windows rebuilt themselves.

A few minutes later, she was at the base of the Tower. The reinforced gate had been smashed in with a tremendous force, the security measures remained inactive. Her eye twitched as she fixed the door with a wave, before sounds of combat filtered down through the elevator shaft. Glynda’s brow furrowed, her grip tightening on her riding crop. With an effort of will, she ascended to the Headmaster’s office, and on her way, she heard the confrontation end when another thunderous impact made the whole Tower sway. She swallowed, then steeled herself as she stepped out from the elevator shaft.

The hall before Ozpin’s office bore all signs of a vicious struggle - walls pockmarked and scorched by bolter and flames, shredded tapestries and carpets, overturned chairs and bookshelves. The door to the inner sanctum was torn off its hinges, and a cyborgized human shape was embedded in the wall close to it, likely the result of a Gravity Dust-enhanced backhand. Glynda palmed her face for a brief moment, before she stepped into her boss’ office.

She found more or less what she expected - the Lord of Dust towering with a sparking power maul in hand, glaring with murderous, incandescent fury at Ozpin, who was sitting in his throne, calmly sipping from his mug. She stood still for a moment, fighting to regain control of her reactions. It would not do to look or sound anything less than professionally calm, after all.

“Boys, do play nice or I’ll have to chastise both of you.”

At her voice, the Lord of Dust stiffened, and turned his head towards her with deliberate slowness, as if hoping she’d be nothing more than a figment of his imagination. Ozpin’s smug grin was almost obscured by his mug, and she desperately fought off the urge to throttle him. She would not, could not lose her unflappable demeanor before  _ him _ .

“Care to explain all this ruckus, Perturabo?” Before the giant could open his mouth, Glynda went on “And do keep in mind that your antics almost injured my students … and likely gave James one hell of a headache.”

The Primarch seemed to wince, and tried to look sheepish, hiding the power maul behind his back, as he looked down at her.

“Er … it’s Qrow’s fault?” Glynda’s eye twitched, her riding crop cracking as she gripped it harder to prevent any unfortunate outburst. She could feel a migraine gathering momentum. 

“I see. And if Qrow is at fault, what exactly are you doing here, my lord?” The calm, sweet tone seemed to freeze the towering giant.

“I … well… that is, Qrow was at fault, but ultimately, it’s Ozpin who’s to blame!” A raised eyebrow and a cold glare aimed at the man produced only a shrug and another sip from that damned mug.

“I have no idea what he is talking about, Glynda.”

Perturabo looked apoplectic, as he struggled to form words.

“No idea? NO IDEA? I will ...”as his hands grabbed for Ozpin, the Primarch felt suddenly off-balance, oddly weightless, just before bumping into the ceiling. He looked down at Goodwitch, saw her twitching eye, and swallowed. “Could you perhaps let me down, Miss Goodwitch?”

She shook her head once, and he sighed, glaring again at Ozpin, who still calmly sipped his mug. The Lord of Dust fiddled with something on his vambrace, and a video recording began playing on the holoscreen.

“Just so you know, Miss Goodwitch, this was a live performance, broadcasted all over the CCTV network.”

Glynda Goodwitch prided herself on her willpower and self-control, both of which were mentioned in favorable context by the Lord of Dust himself (a fact that she was not-so-secretly proud and …. warmed by). Still, the image of Qrow Branwen drunkenly bawling  _ that song _ at the top of his lungs made her stiffen and flush immediately, before turning with glacial, menacing slowness towards the man, who put down his mug.

“Now, Glynda, it was only a bet, I ...” Ozpin’s explanation was interrupted by a hiss before a flick of the riding crop sent the Headmaster of Beacon flailing through his closed windows. Below, a first-year student proud of her fashion sense took a moment to appreciate the impeccable style and trajectory of her school’s principal.

Back in the office, a flushed Glynda Goodwitch was trying to decide whether to sink into the ground from sheer mortification or step closer to Perturabo, who looked at her with respect, humor perhaps a tiny bit of awe … and  _ fondness _ ? For an eternity, the two of them gazed at each other, not caring about the drunken caterwauling from the background.

_ There lived a certain man in Atlas long ago _

_ He was big and strong, in his eyes a flaming glow _

_ Most people looked at him with terror and with fear _

_ But to Atlesian chicks he was such a lovely dear _

_ He could preach like a preacher _

_ Full of ecstasy and fire _

_ But he also was the kind of teacher _

_ Women would desire _

 

* * *

 

 

#  Mugging 

The staff and students of Beacon Academy have gotten used to a number of constants during the decades of Headmaster Ozpin’s tenure. Perhaps the chief amongst these was his ever-present mug, a source of innumerable rumors and wild theories, both about its contents and its significance. There were even half-serious proposals to have the mug as the official symbol of the Academy itself - even if such inane ideas never got past the Deputy Headmistress’ desk. Nevertheless, if a citizen of Vale or Atlas (and likely Vacuo or Mistral) had to name a distinguishing feature of Ozpin apart from his name, the mug would certainly have been the first item mentioned.

In the light of that, it was perhaps no wonder when the ever-unflappable Glynda Goodwitch was seen staring with an inquisitive eyebrow raised at the empty-handed Headmaster, who looked extremely irritated for some reason, his expression more than enough to clear out students from the corridors - and the sight of the sword-cane at his side made her wary.

“Glynda, I’d like you to have words with the Lord of Dust.” The words were forced through thinly compressed lips, driven by barely-contained fury. Glynda raised her eyebrow.

“Why don’t you do that, Ozpin? You’re the Headmaster, and I believe you two can safely be considered friends.”

“Not so sure about that, Glynda. This time, he crossed a line.” Glynda smiled sweetly, and even the furious Ozpin took half a step back at the sight.

“Why, what did he do? Made a bet with a drunken oaf to sing embarrassing songs about you?”

“Glynda, I’m being serious! He confiscated my coffee mug!”

The Deputy Headmistress closed her eyes, and sighed, controlling herself with obvious effort.

“Your mug.”

“Yes!”

“You march through the Academy, terrorizing students, waste our time, and all because your damn mug?”

The answering nod was a bit hesitant, but still firm and furious enough. 

“You know how important that mug is. And I’m not just talking about personal convenience and preference.”

Glynda huffed irritably, conceding the point with a nod. She gestured for the Headmaster to follow her, and marched off towards the laboratory deep within Beacon, the lair of Perturabo. The two followed the twisting maze of ever-shifting corridors below the openly accessible levels, ignoring the constant feeling of being watched from the pristine, featureless walls. The slow, low thrum of immense gears turning was becoming more noticeable, and Glynda saw its effects on Ozpin, as the Headmaster moved just a tad more vigorously.

The lab gate was closed before them, but a touch of Glynda’s hand was enough to make them slide open with a low hiss. Perturabo was within, hunching over a complicated piece of machinery, which she could swear was not there the day before. Ominous bubbling and hissing sounds emanated from the thing, along with puffs of steam and small arcs of electricity. The sharp smell of ozone was very much present, but under that, both humans could smell something  _ else _ . Something  _ powerful _ . Something  _ magnificent _ .

“My lord.” Glynda greeted the Primarch with a slight nod, and frowned at the off-handed answering gesture.

“Just a moment, Glyn, I’m almost finished.”

Ozpin’s smug smirk at Goodwitch’s reaction to the nickname was in no way hidden - and Glynda glared at him, considering that likely this was a key factor in his hissy fit about the mug. Their staredown was broken when the Lord of Dust stood straight, cracking his spine with a satisfied grunt, before turning towards them, smiling warmly at Glynda. She fought hard to control the answering smile and blush, while trying to glare at Ozpin, whose smug smile was widening, even as it filled with warmth.

“May I ask what you were doing, Perturabo?”

“Just tinkering a bit.” An inquisitive eyebrow was enough of a prompt to continue. “Wanted to try out a new type of brew.”

The Primarch produced a familiar mug along with a Dust-alloyed cup, and the two humans could practically feel the caffeine possessing the inanimate objects.

“You absconded with Ozpin’s mug to make coffee.”

“Yes?”

“Dare I ask what’s in the brew?”

“Just a bit of this and that. Don’t worry, I tested the coffeemaker, it filters out the harmful substances quite efficiently.” A huge hand patted the still-hissing machinery, and was rewarded with a puff of steam.

“Harmful...substances? What kind, my lord?”

The Lord of Dust looked slightly uncomfortable.

“Out with it. Now.” A flash of blue eyes accompanied the whip-cracking command.

“A mixture of Dust, Grimm essence, caffeine, a number of spices and… well, I can send the list of ingredients to your scroll.”

Ozpin didn’t hesitate a second longer. With a speed not even the Primarch could follow, he claimed his mug, and casually sipped it, before perking an eyebrow, and nodding towards Perturabo.

“Tastes magnificent.”

 

* * *

 

 

#  Bar crawling

The bartender was nervous. Admittedly, his current guests have paid in advance, and quite well at that, but he still shivered at the cold glare the two man gave each other. The reddish-brown and void-blue eyes were staring unblinking as mug after mug was emptied by each man, the smaller of the pair keeping pace with the giant, while their hands moved the figures on the regicide board without so much as a glance.

“You are good, for an oversized Dustbin.” the regular patron grinned savagely at the giant, who shrugged, moved a figure, then emptied his mug.

“You are not so bad, yourself. Drink helps with concentration?”

Qrow nodded, downed his beer, and crossed to the jukebox. He fiddled a bit with it, then as the music started, went back to their table, contemplating the regicide board. He sneered in disgust, and ceded the game. Perturabo raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

“You’d have won in six moves, I missed a trap a few moves earlier.”

“Impressive, Qrow. James realized this situation only before the actual checkmate.” Qrow flashed a satisfied, smug grin, before Perturabo went on. “On the other hand, Winter spotted it even earlier than you.”

The man’s face soured a bit, and he glared at the giant.

“Did you have to bring her up now? Are you that dense or what?” Perturabo looked puzzled, and Qrow huffed angrily, before reaching for his hip-flask, and taking a sip. “Whatever. Rematch?”

The Primarch nodded, and rearranged the board with deft motions, signalling the bartender for another round.

For a while, there was only the click-clack of figures moving, mugs being replaced on the table, and the nervous humming of the bartender. After the fourth or fifth match, Qrow’s voice joined in the humming, and a few minutes later, at the urge of his companion, Perturabo’s rumbling bass also sounded. For a while, the cold, bitter atmosphere was broken.

Footsteps sounded from the street, and the door opened, two women stalking into the bar, for some reason quite similar despite looking and dressing in markedly different ways. The one on the left was wearing the blue-white uniform of an Atlasian specialist, her white hair styled up in an elegant bun, blue eyes narrowing at the regicide players with barely contained fury. Her partner was clad in black and red, her fashionable dress and high heels looking as if she just walked off a fashion show, her golden eyes flashing with crimson flames.

The bartender gulped, tried to make himself invisible. Perturabo stiffened for a moment, eyes flickering from Winter to Qrow to Cinder, evaluating the possible exits, the structural soundness of the building, hidden and not-so-hidden weaponry … then his eyes widened as Qrow began to hum a song he knew from his own specialist cadre, but with those damned lyrics he thought he has forbidden.

_ I don't see you guys rating _

_ The kind of mate I'm contemplating _

_ I'd let you watch, I would invite you _

_ But the queens we use would not excite you _

Winter and Cinder stalked forwards as one, the killing intent pouring off them lessened a fraction as Qrow continued, gesturing frantically with his mug towards Perturabo to take up the singing.

_ One night in Beacon and the world's your oyster _

_ The bars are temples but the pearls ain't free _

_ You'll find a god in every golden cloister _

_ A little flesh, a little history _

_ I can feel a frozen angel sliding up to me _

The two women looked ready to unleash a verbal evisceration on Qrow, before turning a betrayed look on Perturabo, who started humming as well.

_ One night in Beacon makes a Primarch humble _

_ Not much between despair and ecstasy _

_ One night in Beacon and even Primarchs tumble _

_ Can't be too careful with your company _

_ _ I can feel the Maiden walking next to me _ _

 

* * *

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

#  Building in progress

Ozpin considered himself an educated, intelligent person, with a solid grounding in disciplines that could conceivably be needed during his very long career as a Hunter and teacher. He thought that his friend could not surprise him with anything more impressive than the blueprints of Beacon itself, or maybe a few of his spacefaring ideas. As so often, the Lord of Dust proved him wrong.

The heat in Vacuo’s desert was oppressive, the bleak wasteland a windblown vista of sand and rocks. No water, no natural defences, no shades, only sand and Grimm. Comparatively few Grimm, that was true, but what they lacked in numbers, they more than made up in size, viciousness and cunning. The locals had very good reasons for centering their permanent settlements around the oasis of Shade Academy. His friend intended to change that.

Ozpin watched as Perturabo produced a small (well, for him), silvery case, settled it on the ground. The representatives of Vacuo crowded around him, intently watching as the Lord of Dust explained the functions and workings of the device. The Headmaster of Beacon snorted into his mug as he saw the incredulous looks his friend was getting, with the unsaid undercurrent and patience one would use when dealing with a powerful but mentally unstable individual. They will learn, and learn shortly - after all, compared to some ideas and plans he discussed with the Primarch, this was a small, everyday thing.

Perturabo finished explaining, activated the case, and the group headed back towards the waiting Bullhead. The plane took off, and they hovered at a low altitude, bearing witness to the device working on the ground - and Ozpin’s smug, proud, still-incredulous grin was hard to mask even with his omnipresent mug, as from the whirlwind of Dust and sand, a small, green-blue oasis was born, protected by high sandcrete walls, and Dust-powered forcefields, large enough to house a few hundred people at the very least.

 

* * *

 

 

#  Synthesis

_ Man, born from dust, was strong, wise, and resourceful, but he was born into an unforgiving world. An inevitable darkness — creatures of destruction — the creatures of Grimm - set their sights on man and all of his creations. These forces clashed, and it seemed the darkness was intent on returning man's brief existence to the void. _

_ However, even the smallest spark of hope is enough to ignite change, and in time, man's passion, resourcefulness, and ingenuity led them to the tools that would help even the odds. This power was appropriately named "Dust". _

_ Nature's wrath in hand, man lit their way through the darkness, and in the shadow's absence came strength, civilization, and most importantly, life. _

Perturabo ponders the ancient, stasis-preserved manuscript, his mind racing along numerous simultaneous paths to several possible conclusions. The screens of his lab are awash in a blue glow of the sea of data, enough to collapse a normal mind from the sheer information overload. Much as he would like, the facts do not lie: with the current level of Dust production and refinement, they have no chance to turn the tide of Grimm - at best, a stalemate is possible. The Primarch runs another analysis, even though he knows the result already; not even the advanced tech he and Atlas are preparing for distribution is enough. There is simply extremely little margin for error and transition, and the Grimm have an aptitude to find the vulnerable periods, especially since Salem took over.

More Dust is needed, to buy time, a breathing room - to make the distribution of tech and the requisite research feasible at all. He does not see a viable alternative, not even when delving into the vast vault of knowledge inherited from his unknown creator.

The complex wall of machinery behind him is untested, potentially dangerous - well, to a normal human, it is. Even to him, there may be perils inherent in using the experimental machinery. Perturabo snorts; as if progress was never involved any danger, for the scientist in question. Still, he is calculating the possible impact of his prolonged absence, or in a worst case, his removal from the struggle against Salem’s Grimm. His eyes and mind roam over the displayed maps, searching for patterns, trying to predict upcoming incursions, as his fingers note down recommendations and orders for his subordinates. 

Within an hour, the planning is done, and the instructions are sent - and the Primarch turns his head toward the unseen sky, his eyes narrowing on the blot of swirling insanity that glares back with aeons-old malevolence. There is a distinct possibility that he could utilize the powers from beyond that hateful Eye, but again he hesitates for a second and discards the idea. He is unsure if he could truly control that power - and considering the strong implications of Salem’s fall, he is sure that the price of the power would be immense. 

With a rueful shake of his head, he turns back to the machinery, and the four colored Dust crystals resting within, the immaculate specimens supplied by Albert and his family, and a mass of powdered inert crystals resting within the transference pod. With a deep breath, he starts flipping switches, and the lab is filled with the sharp tang of ozone as power builds. Perturabo’s left hand reaches within the machine, and the cool metal encases his limb, syringes plunging into his flesh, siphoning his blood - and not just that. His eyes half-close in concentration, a part of his mind unconsciously, dispassionately keeping watch over the various displays while his will and consciousness are focused towards his left hand, his blood, the core of still-untapped inner strength he feels similar yet different to the emanations of the terrible Eye.

The four Dust crystals begin to shine and minutely tremble, their outlines slowly blurring as the rich blood of the Primarch drips over them as minute electric charges play across their frame. The humming of the machine slowly builds to a shriek of tortured, stressed metal, as an inexorable will of iron is forcing Nature’s Wrath itself to submit. Arcs of lightning flicker across the room, the crystals in the tank seemingly melting, as flames flicker within, fanned by gusts of wind, doused by the water. The transference podis clouded with steam, and Perturabo’s lips quirk in a small, vicious grin, as he feels something taking shape within the opaque pod, his blood opening pathways for his will to force the Dust into a new form, empowering the inert material, creating a new fusion of power. The laboratory flashes with a blue-white discharge of electricity, the machine howling from the abuse.

The Primarch studies the dials as the steam clears from the transference pod, leaving a sizable, multicolored crystal. A quick check of the original Dust crystals confirms his first impression - though slightly deformed, their potential is only marginally less, and the newly-created artificial crystal is powerful enough for their purposes. Perturabo nods, satisfied - the first, hardest step is complete, refining the process should be comparatively easier. And finally, they do have a chance to turn the tide and go on the offensive. 

 

* * *

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

#  Party Girl

He enjoyed these parties, as they offered plenty of opportunities to further his business practices, improve his standing with the people in power - and of course to encounter eligible (and sometimes not so eligible) female company. Taking a flute of champagne, he turned and surveyed the hunting grounds.

As usual, the SDC did not spare at the expenses - and it seems everyone important in Atlas was invited. He even glimpsed the immense figure of the fabled Lord of Dust, quietly conversing with their host, before the giant vanished somewhere, likely to talk some gullible idiot into agreeing with his “noble” cause. He scoffed. As if anyone, especially a cold, calculating figure like Perturabo would believe such inane fancies! Sure, it was a good ploy to invoke public support, but to try it on the actual movers and shakers? No, the Lord of Dust certainly could not be so … naive.

With a shake of his head, he sipped at his champagne, and once again looked over the crowd, putting the usual power plays out of his head - at the moment, he felt more inclined to some pliant, female company. His eyes came to rest on a rather attractive young redhead, who stood at the edge of the crowd, alone, and seeming rather unsure and awkward, exhibiting the classic signs of a first-timer. After another quick look, she indeed seemed alone, the cut and colors of her clothes suggesting a foreign origin. Still, the black opera gloves, stockings, the emerald-green dress and black choker with green geometric patterns made her look rather fetching.

The soft music masked his steps, as he approached the foreign girl, and she seemed to absorbed in watching the people with a strange smile

“Quite a crowd, isn’t it?”

His words seemed to startle her, coming from quite closely, but her deep green eyes shone with excited, childish happiness, and her smile seemed to light up the ballroom.

“Salutations, fellow guest!” He felt his eyebrows raise involuntarily at the strange greeting, before shrugging mentally, putting on his best smile.

“Greetings, Miss…?” She seemed to hesitate for a second, as if trying to remember something important.

“Penny. Penny … Polendina. Pleased to meet you at this excellent social occasion!”

He stepped a bit closer still - sure, she was rather eccentric, put in his experience, that was rather a benefit than a drawback. His movement stopped when his eyes caught a tall woman marching towards them, her blue eyes flat and emotionless - and he stiffened as he recognized the older daughter of his host. His thoughts raced as he tried to come up with a way to turn the situation to his advantage, maybe use the well-known temper of Winter.

“Penny.” The Schnee’s voice was colder than her name suggested - and yet all three could feel that the underlying hostility was not directed at the young redhead. “Is this person bothering you?”

The strange girl smiled happily, the warmth and bubbling voice making her affection quite clear.

“Of course not, Aunt Winter.” He could feel his jaw trying to fall. “He was likely about to engage in the social interaction known as flirting with me, presumably with the intent to….”

He could see the eyes of Winter Schnee widen, focusing behind him, and he spun around, coming face to belt with a towering figure whose whole form radiated a barely controlled fury. 

“Winter. Would you kindly mingle a bit and take Penny along?” He realized that compared to Perturabo, the gaze of the Schnee daughter was warm and friendly. The basso voice rumbled on, making him shiver in dread, as a huge hand was placed on his shoulder. “It seems he and I have a few things to discuss.”

 

* * *

 

 

#  Special Assignment

After spending a number of years in close proximity to her Lord, Specialist Winter Schnee was quite taken in with the sometimes eccentric-seeming, but always frighteningly logical and level-headed behavior of her not-so-secret crush. So she felt rather conflicted at his open display of emotion during the latest incident with Penny - on one hand, him going into “overprotective dad” was adorable (and she resolved to later show the recordings to Cinder and Glynda), on the other, this was going too far.

Her problem was that even after all these years, she found it difficult to point out the flaws in his logic and behavior when people were involved. She did not have Glynda’s deft touch or Cinder’s burning passion; he always valued her for rational, cool head; he once heard him say that he considered her the middle of his Hecate Sisters - and after witnessing Glynda’s (over)reaction to that little tidbit of information, she resolved not to pry too deeply into the meaning behind it. Still, that aside, she had to make it clear that he was overreacting. She probably would have to say something, before she got dizzy from all the pacing he did. With an effort of will, she drew herself straight, and cleared her throat. His pacing stopped, and for a second he glared at her, before his gaze softened, and he nodded at her, half-apologetically.

“Permission to speak freely, lord?”

She only thought he was glaring before; now she was subjected to the stare that reduced experienced, strong-willed diplomats and potentates to gibbering wrecks. She remained calm, collected.

“I specifically remember ordering you to do just that, years ago, Winter.” The distant thunder of an approaching avalanche still thundered in his voice. “And I know that you are not one to forget something like  _ that _ .”

She nodded, conceding the point.

“Then let me be painfully clear, lord. You are acting like an idiot.” His eyes conveyed equal measure of hurt and rage. She forged on, the icy walls of her will drawn close around her heart. “Penny is for all intents and purposes, a teenager. If you want her to act like humans, that will include dating, as well.” The Primarch growled, but she raised her voice and spoke over his objections. “And no, I will not let you waste millions of lien and uncountable hours of work by hundreds of agents just to compile and update a profile on every male person of Remnant who may potentially encounter your daughter in a social situation!”

She felt a pang of satisfaction at his sputtering face, feeling his resolve waver, and as he taught him, went for the kill.

“But let’s say we compile and keep that database up to date, with you or the security personnel scaring away all potential undesirable boyfriends - what if she decides she prefers women?”


	5. Chapter 5

#  First Meeting 

“My Lord, the out-system satellites picked up … something. We have no similar data, but our guess is that these are drive signatures from a sizable fleet, using a propulsion system we are not familiar with. ”

Perturabo narrowed his eyes as he studied the scroll for a second, before his eyes widened a fraction, and his lips curved into a bittersweet smile.

“Indeed, those are warp drives. Notify the inner circle to convene in the strategium within two hours.”

The Lord of Dust marched off, his mind already calculating likely strategies, contingencies, while his fingers danced over his scroll, conjuring and discarding immense amounts of data. He owed his people, his family to create a plan to survive contact with his progenitor’s empire as much intact as possible.

++++++++++

The holoscreen of the strategium cast a faint blue glow over the small group of assembled humans, their eyes following the datafeed projected by Perturabo. The Primarch had been speaking for close to half an hour, his cold, precise voice outlining possible outcomes of the new contact with dispassionate serenity, his gaze not searching for anyone, but neither shying away from the eyes of his friends, his family. He appreciated their focus, their patience - and the fact that none of them showed any sign of pity, or fear directed towards him. 

Ozpin sipped from his mug, and opened his mouth to say something, but Glynda preempted him.

“Why progenitor, Perturabo? Why not father?”

“The latter would imply an emotional bond, Glynda, something that has not existed, and might never come into being. As it is, I might as well call Ozpin my father...”

A violent coughing fit interrupted the meeting, as Ozpin bent over, as Glynda enjoyed a brief, vindictive smirk before she slapped his back, the Headmaster of Beacon finally getting his breath under control, glaring at the Primarch.

“Not funny, Perturabo. Not funny at all.”

“You’ll survive. And consider this payback for some of the stunts you pulled over the years.”

Winter and Cinder failed to fully suppress their highly inappropriate snickering, but even James and Glynda wore not-so-small smirks. The moment of levity passed quickly though, and the small group went back to planning and preparing.

++++++++++

The arrival of the fleet in-system was made public shortly afterwards, and Remnant prepared to meet their voidfaring cousins, with the masses being largely unaware of the potential issues caused by the new arrivals.

The Lord of Dust worked with the personnel responsible for the orbital communication network to send the newcomers a set of coordinates for a landing zone, and thus Beacon Academy was awaiting the arrival of the Emperor.

The ship that descended from orbit did not disappoint the people of Remnant - the gilded, immense flying castle exuded power, majesty, and devotion of its creators towards the beloved passenger. The slow descent of the vessel allowed them to truly appreciate the gulf in technological level compared to this Imperium, and made it clear how and why the Lord of Dust was so well-informed in so many fields of study.

The voidfaring cathedral alighted on Remnant, and the crowd held its breath as the immense ramp descended in a hiss of servoes, amidst puffs of steam. Only those closest to him could see how the Lord of Dust tensed for a microsecond, as if he were preparing to jump into combat. The ramp finished its descent, and footsteps sounded from the interior of the ship. A beacon of warm, golden light lit up the darkness within the ship, warmed the welcoming committee, as a man marched down heading straight for Perturabo.

The Primarch could see how his friends, his family, his retainers struggled (and mostly failed) to stay upright in the face of the awe and pressure emanating from that person, and with narrowed gaze, stepped out to meet the man halfway, his whole body tensing as it went to combat mode. An amused, indulgent smile tugged at the stranger’s lips as he stopped and spoke, his mellifluous voice easily carrying over the crowd, the majority of people listening in reverent silence.

“Pleased to meet you, my son. I have come to take you home.”

“Cease this demeaning projection, progenitor.” Perturabo’s voice was cold, and the golden light cooled, a pressure focusing on the Lord of Dust, molten gold clashing with void-cold blue as the two wills took each other’s measure. The Emperor flashed a bittersweet smile, and the golden radiance, the overwhelming pressure of awe withdrew, at the same time, the Primarch felt a presence at the edge of his mind, a voice whispering to him.

+++CAREFUL, MY SON. DO NOT OVERPLAY YOUR HAND. MY PATIENCE AND FORBEARANCE ARE NOT ENDLESS, AND YOU WOULD BE WISE NOT TO TEMPT MY WRATH.+++

_ Your power is kin to what dwells within and beyond that terrible eye, progenitor. I will work with you, I will serve Mankind and the Imperium - but I will not become a blindly obedient slave, fawning over your power and magnificence. _

A pulse of fury lashed across the field for a fraction of a second, then the Emperor nodded towards Perturabo, and the Primarch could feel reluctant pride radiating from the golden figure, before he knelt and swore fealty to the Imperium of Man.

 

* * *

 

 

#  Fabricated Meeting

Fabricator Locum Kane was conflicted. On one hand, his current errand had taken him very far from his forge-complex and Mars itself, and despite the competence and diligence of his subordinates, the production quotas would likely suffer - hopefully it would be within the margins set by him and communicated towards the Fabricator-General. On the other hand, he understood and approved the importance of a high-level member of the Mechanicum paying a visit to the Lord of Dust, in order to formalize the pact and interworking between Primarch and the devotees of the Omnissiah. Admittedly, the available data on the local tech of Remnant was a major factor in his decision to undertake the journey personally - similarly to how he did visit Vulkan, Ferrus Manus and Corax to formalize a close connection.

There was also an issue that needed investigation - rumors swirled in the data networks and noosphere of Mars about Perturabo and his cadre committing the grave sin of creating an Abominable Intelligence … which was, more worriedly, allowed to exist. Kane switched his cogitation focus to his immediate surroundings, when his sensors notified him that he arrived at his destination. The large double doors of the complex opened, and the Fabricator Locum walked into the forge of the Lord of Dust, his mind appreciating the consideration shown.

A quick glance around, a lightning-fast query of his databanks identified the companions of Perturabo. James Ironwood, the cyborgized general rated an appreciative internal nod, as Kane’s sensors catalogued and assessed the quality of implants, a set of processors dedicated to compare and merge the designs with the Mechanicum ones. Glynda Goodwitch, Perturabo’s aide in matters of education, a quite skilled person in that respect. Winter Schnee, the coldly pragmatic head of the Primarch’s personal agent cadre. Cinder Fall, the so-called Fall Maiden of Remnant, the scant data pointing at potent, directly-employed psychic abilities. Kane devoted a fraction of a second to try and decipher the confusing mess of data that was available of the interpersonal dynamics of the three females and the Primarch, then decided it was irrelevant to the current situation - and unworthy speculation on the part of the Mechanicum, at any rate.

“Greetings, Primarch Perturabo” Kane modulated his voice to project his emotions properly. “It is an honor to stand in your forge, and meet your closest acolytes.”

The Primarch nodded, studiously ignoring the smirks and frowns his female companions directed at him. Ironwood rolled his eyes.

“Be welcome, Fabricator Locum Kane. Partake from the current of my forge as your needs dictate.”

Kane felt the familiar invigorating pulse of a welcoming forge, but this time, there were some odd sensations to it. A part of that could certainly be due to the unorthodox power source used by the people of Remnant (he was looking forward to work with this so-called Dust), yet that was not all. A vast, half-awake presence seemed to touch and envelope him, his receptors and sensors registering an irregularly high spike of activity in the cogitators and monitoring equipment of the forge and Beacon Academy itself. He focused, felt the data entity look for connections, granted and received clearances to some internal databanks - and he considered that a facial expression was warranted to show his appreciation, again.

“You have created an extraordinary Machine Spirit here, lord Primarch. The partnership between Mars and Remnant is promising to be even more fruitful than our most optimistic projections suggested.”

Perturabo nodded with a satisfied smile, his answer interrupted when a door to an inner chamber of the forge hissed open.

“Salutations, Father!”

The cheerful voice of the teenage-looking female sent Kane’s body to combat readiness, as his worst fears were confirmed, and the Abominable Intelligence sidled closer to Perturabo, beaming at everyone, receiving smiles and nods in return, the Primarch ruffling her hair. The thing then looked at him with those green eyes, and she cocked her head to the side, examining him thoroughly - likely looking for the most efficient ways to overcome him in the rapidly approaching confrontation. The creature stepped away from the Lord of Dust, and waved at him, an excited, happy smile accompanying its words.

“Welcome, friend Kane! I look forward to learning from you! The Academy says you know more about machines than Father.”

Involuntarily, Kane felt his head tilt to the side inquisitively. This was not the reaction he was expecting, and his processors went into overdrive calculating possible results and re-evaluating the situation. His hesitation was only for a microsecond, but Winter seemed to catch it.

“We are well aware how the Imperium thinks of high-level artificial intelligences. We know some of the reasons for that, and we would like to work on preventing such unfortunate events from happening ever again.”

Kane nodded, appreciating her candor, as Perturabo spoke.

“That said, understand this well, Fabricator Locum. Penny is my daughter. If she’s harmed in any way by the Mechanicum, I will not care for the Treaty of Olympus, and will be coming for you.”

“An irrational overreaction due to less-than-logical feelings, lord Primarch.” Kane affected not to notice the glares directed at him, or the oppressive looming of the forge itself. “That said, it is an emotion any fellow creator of something unique can sympathize with.”

Penny beamed at him again, and he felt an involuntary twitch of his lips.

“That said, I still would like to conduct an in-depth examination of your creation, as well as the process resulting in its becoming self-aware.”

“She is not an object.” Glynda growled, and Cinder continued, distant flames crackling in her whispering voice.

“You will not disassemble her like you do with your Cybernetica thralls.”

“Why in the name of the Omnissiah would I resort to such crude techniques? Admittedly, I am still not entirely convinced that she” Kane nodded at Glynda “is not a threat to us, but I am willing to give her a chance to prove me wrong.”

The Fabricator Locum turned towards Penny, and continued, his words both to the young AI and her creators and guardians.

“With your help, we have a measurable chance on creating more aware, more versatile Machine Spirits, better integrate the blessings of the Omnissiah into humanoid forms, and get closer to what some of my colleagues call Akasha.”

 

* * *

 

 

#  Mistress of Arms 

Velvet Scarlatina felt anxious as she walked down towards the Primarch’s personal forge, her mind again wondering why so many people considered the complex labyrinthine, and took so long to descend into the depths of Beacon Academy - she was in no particular hurry, yet the short, softly humming corridors and floors led her unerringly, as always.

She did not know exactly why the Lord of Dust asked for her, but she was no fool - it was likely due to the presence of the Imperials, and their poorly-concealed disdain towards all faunus they encountered. Her ears drooped, figure hunching as she considered what the powerful newcomers could and would do to her kind, but the ancient oath and promise of Atlas gave her strength. She would not believe that Perturabo would go back on his principles, turn his back on her people - not after so long, not even in the face of his rumored father.

Velvet shuddered, as she thought of the towering golden figure, that terrible incarnation of impersonal might, power constrained by a will of iron, a being who forced others to their knees by its mere presence. And yet, if rumors were correct, the Lord of Dust stood up to him, in defence of his people. She squared her shoulders as she reached the gates of the forge, which hissed open before her, and she stepped inside.

As in most cases, the immensely complex machinery emitted a low, steady thrumming she found soothing, even if she had no idea what most of the gadgets were actually capable of, or used for. Not that it mattered - if and when she asked, the Lord of Dust would explain and demonstrate the functions of the devices. Ears perking up, she glanced around for Perturabo, finding the Primarch contemplating a holoscreen displaying a galactic map awash in various symbols and annotations. Velvet tried to decipher the intricate dance of multicolored lights, but the Lord of Dust interrupted her thoughts.

“I have something different in mind for you, Velvet.” The faunus drew herself up, and nodded towards Perturabo, her voice a low purr.

“As you wish, lord.” A half-serious, half-exasperated glare was the answer, as Perturabo growled, unable to fully disguise the fondness in his voice.

“I see you’ve been spending too much time with Winter. Again.” He sighed, then shook his head, and she realized that the demigod they relied on so much, they took for granted for so long was  _ tired _ . She stepped closer, opened her mouth to speak, hand half-raised to do...something, when the Primarch flashed a tired smile at her.

“Don’t worry, Velvet, I’ll manage.” His voice dropped back into his instructional tone, which she was intimately familiar with after the numerous sessions when experimenting with Dust and her Semblance. “First off, you can relax, and let the other faunus know that the Imperium will not be allowed to mess with them for simply being faunus. They have my word on  _ that _ .”

The young Huntress grinned, proud and pleased at the words, then schooled her face into an attentive mask as Perturabo went on.

“I will have to leave Remnant quite soon, and I’m not sure when I can come back - and I’m sure you know that certain people will try to use my absence to attack my people.”

Velvet shuddered involuntarily as she nodded, her mind all too aware of how the Grimm and their insane Mistress would react to the Lord of Dust leaving. The Hunters would have a lot of work ahead, and the defenses would be tested like never before in living memory. 

“Most of my closest friends will remain here for the time being, to contain the situation, and to keep an eye on the Imperial-local relations here. I will however take a number of people with me - you, chief amongst them.”

“Me, lord? But...but...why? I’m just a junior Huntress, and I...” Her ear-dropping stammering was interrupted by a low chuckle.

“Velvet, you should really listen to Coco’s lessons on confidence. You might be a junior Huntress, but your aptitude with Dust is exceptional, you are quick to learn, open-minded, observant, and your Semblance will likely be extremely useful.”

She felt cold creeping up her spine as she heard the inner conflict in his voice. She contemplated for a second, then nodded.

“Do you think I can be useful to you out there?” A slow nod, accompanied by a bitter smile was the answer. “Then count me in, lord.”

“Do you realize I’m asking you to head out into a war the likes of which noone here has ever imagined? That I have to plan on using you for your Semblance? To likely pit you against foes me and my brothers were made to confront?”

She paled a shade, but nodded, ears quivering anxiously.

“Would you do all those things without a good reason, lord? Would you do it if there was an alternative?” Her answer was a slow headshake. “There you have it, lord.”

“Thank you, Velvet.”

“May I ask precisely what my task will be?”

“Officially, you will be one of my aides. Unofficially, you will have to learn and record a rather large number of Imperial weapons and fighting styles. I will help you improving your little camera, of course, but you need to learn very much, very fast.” The young woman nodded hesitantly, her posture conveying reluctance and fear to do something, before she gulped, steeled herself, and spoke.

“What are you afraid of, lord?”

For a second, she hunched at the fury in the Primarch’s face, before she drew herself up, still trembling but meeting his gaze. The fury subsided, and Perturabo chuckled.

“I’m afraid what will happen to our home, Velvet, should anything happen to me. I need someone to safeguard Beacon and Remnant while I’m away. I need a trump card our enemies never see coming.”

Velvet considered, her mind racing along the line of reasoning the Primarch started, before she nodded a few seconds later.

“I understand, lord. And it makes that even more of an honor.”

“Well, consider yourself the first Mistress of Arms, then.”

++++++++++

Velvet is shivering in the drop pod, eyes closed in concentration as her Aura struggles to keep her intact during the insertion. The pod crashes, and she takes a few seconds to collect herself, then another few to disentangle from the safety webbing. Her Astartes escort is already out, securing the immediate landing zone, the staccato barking of bolter fire reaching her ears, along with the berserk howl of the green tide.

She steps from the drop pod, the camera at her hip humming in her mind, words unclear but the tone, the meaning resonating somewhere deep within her, her eyes half-closed as her Semblance takes over. Her power suit lights up as the enchantments she worked hard to incorporate flare into being. The green tide closes, intent on drowning the Imperials under sheer weight of muscles and blades. 

The dark eyes of the rabbit faunus flash open, as blue light outlines an immense power maul in her hand. Half a second later, she lands amidst the Orkish horde, the beasts realizing her presence too late as a thunderous impact of light and force tears a crater into the ground, sending greenskin flying. Eager for a worthy kill, they focus on her, most ignoring the Astartes firing into the press with pinpoint accuracy. The power maul shifts into a slender cane, and Velvet blurs forward, her blade’s point burying itself in a dozen throats within a second. 

Cane morphing into an immense scythe, she launches herself in the air, pirouetting away from the blades intent on killing her. The blue outline of the scythe flashes, and heads clatter on the ground. Oversized gauntlets hug her hands now, the shots thundering from them propelling her backwards, zigzagging amidst the horde, never standing still. 

The gauntlet becomes a sword becomes a bolter becomes a lascannon … and the Mistress of Arms weaves the death of the enemies of Mankind, her guardians and friends watching her back, carrying the victorious, unconscious faunus off the battlefield as she drops along with the last living Ork.

++++++++++

She stands tall before the vast horde of undulating Grimm, her teammates and the Legionaries taking up firing positions to cover her. The inhuman tide sweeps closer, and soon, she can tell apart individual forms from the massed beasts. The small camera box at her hip begins humming in her mind, and she closes her eyes in concentration.

_ I am the film of my camera, _

_ Wood is my frame, and Dust is my lens. _

Lines of Dust infused in her armor light up, power building within as the enhancements she worked on with the Lord of Dust himself are coming alive. A steady, low humming emanates from the innocuous box, feeding her soul’s light and feeding off from it in turn.

_ Unknown to photography, nor known to weapon-smithing. _

_ Have taken many pictures to create many weapons, _

Familiar images, memories inundate her mind, scenes with friends, coworkers, subordinates and superiors playing their intricate dance, her mind fixing their weapons, their skill in wielding them in details, storing them as much for future needs as a simple, human need for mementoes of such happy, carefree moments. Still, even within that sea of moments, there are some that stand out: Ruby and her Uncle clashing with deadly speed, Crescent Rose against Silence. Yatsuhashi’s immense blade locked with the guan dao of Jaghatai, both warriors smiling. Yang brawling against the Wolf King, their eyes alight with the joy of fighting. Jaune and the Lion saluting each other before a bout. Blake struggling against Corax in a storm of shadows and blades. Coco and Vulkan arguing over some immense, multi-barreled monster of a gun. Weiss circling Magnus, the light of glyphs and psychic fire outlining their shapes. Ozpin’s slender sword-cane weaving an intricate dance to get by Perturabo’s power maul. 

_ Yet, that film will never capture anything, _

_ So as I pray, Unlimited Bunny Works. _

The dark tide is stopped cold as Velvet Scarlatina opens her eyes, the light of Dust searing into the Grimm, and she dances through her memories, a small, happy smile on her lips. None can stand against her, as long as she has her memories and friends behind her. And she will erase all that would threaten them.


	6. Hunters and Legions I

##  Meeting on Macragge

Magna Macragge Civitas. Crown jewel of the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar. Seat of power for the XIIIth Legion, and home of Primarch Roboute Guilliman. Both Primarch Perturabo and Seneschal Ozpin agreed that one should not discard Guilliman’s achievements just because the man was perhaps the second-biggest control freak of the Imperium. And since the mission was deemed important, that rather limited the range of candidates.

Weiss Schnee felt an equal amount of anxiety and giddy anticipation, with a healthy dose of awe - after all, she was going to meet a brother of her family’s longtime patron, and her personal favorite amongst the Eighteen. Admittedly, she did not have much personal experience with them, as she “only” saw the Khan with her own eyes (well, and Uncle Perturabo, but that was a given). Of course, her friends and teammates teased her mercilessly about her chosen “idol”, questioning why she did not follow the trend of Imperial high society, and choose the Phoenician, or the Lord of Angels as the object of her teenage crush. Weiss scoffed. As if she was vapid enough to go for mere looks - even though she had admitted that both Primarchs were rather … stunning. And the wings of the Angel did look rather awe-inspiring.

Still, she admired the insanely complex mind of the Ultramarines Primarch - her team might not admit the effort needed for smoothly running an empire the size of Ultramar, but she’s been prepared for similar (though naturally smaller-scaled) tasks her entire life. She spent the entire journey from Remnant to Macragge reading up on Guilliman - naturally, her extended family provided quality information for her, as always. Ruby and especially Yang got easily bored with the reading material of course, and even Blake got fed up with the immense amount of writing Guilliman produced, as she preferred much lighter reading material, even though she could definitely see the benefits of the Ultramarine approach.

Their arrival was all that Weiss envisioned - an honour guard of Astartes and Army personnel, an immense crowd watching and cheering the new, exotic arrivals. The following was all a blur for Weiss, with only a few fragments of information being clear in her mind - chagrined, she could not even recall the full name of the Astartes (Gorod...something, the commander of the Primarch’s bodyguard; she was sure Yang would tease her later for the slip of concentration) who conducted them to the Primarch’s private office. 

She took in the vast table full of data slates, the well-used stylus, the comparatively simple furnishing of the room, and nodded to herself, confirming her estimate of the Ultramarine Primarch … before blushing furiously, and performing the elaborate greetings necessary for such high-ranking Imperial personages - after all, not every member of the Imperial Family was as easygoing as the Khan or Perturabo. Weiss had a very hard time of concentrating what the Primarch said, as she realized she underestimated his sheer physical presence, the aura of classic, patrician bearing, the sheer nobility and gravitas emanating from the man.

Then, he started speaking, and the next thing she knew, only the two of them were present, discussing various tasks required when running a world. She did not realize how many hours passed, that her teammates have already left, that it was closer to dawn than evening, and that she should have felt hunger and thirst much earlier - before her stomach rudely interrupted their discussion, making her blush furiously.

A disapproving female voice sounded from the direction of the door.

“Boy, I thought I raised you better than that.” An iron-shod staff tapping on the floor accompanying the footsteps coming closer. Weiss half-turned, opening her mouth to rebuke the insolent person to interrupt their conversation when her jaw fell as she noticed the minuscule wince of Guilliman. Like a child about to be scolded. “It seems you still forget the finer points of being a host to visiting human dignitaries when they prove able to keep up with your ramblings.” 

Tarasha Euten shook her head, smiling at the two, as she put a hand on Weiss’ shoulder.

“Trust me, girl - my son will not disappear just because you go to sleep for a few hours. And in the future, if he forgets to offer refreshments” her disapproving glare and the Primarch’s apologetic wince making that unlikely, “don’t be too awestruck or hesitant to ask. It’s rare enough to find someone not of the Legions who can keep up with him the way you could, child.”

Weiss blushed scarlet, especially when Guilliman nodded approvingly.

“And I certainly would not mind that with you around, the boy has someone closer to his age to  _ talk  _ with.”

The old woman’s last remark, delivered with just a hint of a smirk, made Guilliman sputter indignantly.

 

* * *

 

 

##  Among Wolves

The dark, cold interior of the ship comes alive with a frightening suddenness. Yellow eyes glitter from the shadows, wet leopard-growls sound from all around, as sharp canines flash from mirthlessly grinning mouths and muzzles. Guttural voices bark incomprehensible phrases - it seems they will not even deign to use the Imperial Gothic when talking to her. She is sure that they can all sense her instinctive reactions - after all, they were designed to be highly efficient hunters and killing machines, and she is only prey for them, at the moment. Rationally, she knows that they will not harm her, their laws of hospitality guaranteeing that much - but the primal parts of her brain, her guts are not nearly so sure about this.

The pack of apex predators cluster around her, their movements appallingly fluid and terrifyingly silent - if not for their voices and taunts, she is not sure she would hear or sense them. The immense figures prowl almost close enough to touch, their snarling language mixing with the whine of their armors. She is tense, her whole body quivering, on the verge of breaking, of running for it. Still, she has prepared for this. Her will is Iron and Dust alloyed together, and when one of the giants makes the mistake of openly underestimating her, belittling her with his harsh voice, thoughtless words, she  _ moves _ .

The growling predators form a circle around them as her heel smashes the knee joint of the giant, making him stagger. She kicks him in the jaw with a flip, and by the time he recovers, the small box at her hip hums alive, as she speaks for the first time since entering the hall.

_ I am the lens of my camera,  _

_ Wood is my frame, and Dust is my film. _

Blue light outlines an immense dao blade in her hands, and she blurs forward, the Wolf dodging, giving ground, before she jumps, the sword morphing into an equally oversized power maul, which connects with the jaw of the Astartes, lifting him clean off his feet, sending him crashing into the bulkhead behind.

The faunus stands tall, only her quivering ears betraying her nervousness, as the howling laughter of the circle of wolves makes her wince a bit.

Olvir Hrafnkelsson grins, spits out blood and a tooth as he stands, nodding towards her.

“I recognize my mistake, Velvet Scarlatina, and will be sure to correct it.”

 

* * *

 

 

##  Loyalty Undoubted

The young Hunter never thought he would be doing something like this. He knew that his family had always been close to the Lord of Dust, and that they held some old-fashioned values - or at least, values that several of his peers thought outdated, impractical. He was proud that despite the pressure, he held on to the family tenets, though admittedly his friends and teammates (a pair of vibrant green eyes flashed in his memory) had helped a lot. Still, that was precious little comfort at the moment, while standing outside the gates of Aldurukh, shivering in the cold night air, listening to the taunts and jeers of the gatekeeper.

The needling, harsh words and criticism stung, mostly because he could see them as valid; he himself thought those things daily. But the thought of turning away, of failing his friends (one particular friend, especially), of disappointing his Primarch, and the desire to finally put an end to those voices, steeled his determination to stay, to endure.

The hours crawled past, night became day became night again. He was swaying in place now, exhausted beyond measure, thirsty and hungry. His senses dulled by the fog of fatigue, the first sign of having company was when a rough cloth sack was pulled over his head, and he was dragged away into the night, over stone floors and endless, circulating passages. His final destination was some kind of a large hall, going by the echoes. He tried to croak something, anything, but a blade pressing against the back of his head stopped him.

“Speak only when asked, boy.” The gravelly voice hissing into his ear turned eager, dripping with bloodlust. “Or we will get really close and personal for a few short moments.”

The young Hunter swallowed and nodded. Another deep voice sounded, coming from somewhere in front of him, accompanied by the whine of power armor, and the sound of boots hitting the stone floor.

“You will fail, boy. You are not worthy. None of you backwater yokels are worthy. Not a single one of you can understand our ideals, our sacrifices.”

Another voice cut in, a smooth baritone of a practiced orator.

“Of course he can. He has determination and will aplenty.”

What followed then was a gruelling session of questions and answers, with the two interrogators alternatively heckling and encouraging him, one always sure to find even the smallest imperfection, the littlest hesitation in his voice and reasoning. The other encouraged him, praised his answers - as long as they followed the spirit of the teachings. His voice is just a dry, faint croaking at the end, but he manages to hold himself straight - a blade at the back can do wonders like that. And he’s not entirely sure that they wouldn’t act on their threats should he fail.

They discuss tactics, history both of his family and the Imperium at large. Calibanite and Remnant customs are delved into, theoretical points of bladework and knowledge of various monsters are tested. He answers all, the memory of a smile and shining green eyes enough to make him persevere.

“So, you basically thought we would teach you and induct you just because you were sent by your Lord.”

“No. You know well that Lord Perturabo only arranged for the possibility; it was made clear from the beginning that I gain acceptance or fail entirely due to my abilities and knowledge.” He feels a small but persistent ache behind his eyes; surely a sign of the fatigue.

“Why do you want to join us? A ploy to learn our secrets? To sniff out our weaknesses, to spy on us?”

His captors take a moment to realize that the strangled sound is him trying to laugh.

“Spy on you? Why would we, I, want to do that? Yes, I want to learn from you - from the moment our Primarch told us about you, I wanted to try and become a part of your Order.”

“As if you could understand our sacrifices, our duty...”

He snarls, croaking voice full of as much fury as he can muster.

“Don’t pretend you are the only ones who style themselves as standing between the innocents and the monsters intent on devouring them! You here are doing the same as us Hunters on Remnant - and that’s why I thought, hoped that I could learn from you, since we both follow the same ideals, the same goals! You may have won your fight here on your homeworld, but you didn’t stop there, and followed Lord Jonson into the stars … and I can learn something here that can give us an advantage against the Grimm and others who prey on humans and innocents, I will learn it, or die trying!”

The blade came away from his back, and a hand pulled off the sack from his head. Sweat-matted blond hair shone in the candle-lit hall, as the young Hunter’s jaw fell open at the sight of the second most famous person of Caliban.

“The Order will take you on, and you will learn to walk the Spiral, Jaune Arc.” Luther intoned. “And as long as you hold to your pure idealism, your dreams, I believe you will be a worthy addition to the Knights of Caliban.”

 

* * *

 

 

##  The Daughter and the Frater

Soft blue light suffused the laboratory, along with the sharp tang of ozone, as the Iron Hands legionary was muttering to himself (or perhaps to the recording device located in his harness) while he worked, manipulators and mechadendrites unfolding from his armor, wielding various tools as sparks flew from the complex, hissing machinery. He focused on his work, double-checking his welds - it would not do to have the machine malfunction due to something so mundane. 

Satisfied with the quality of his work, he paused, as his mind and logical routines again considered the rather … unique situation of his. He was sure that while the Gorgon could see the value (and immense trust) in Perturabo’s gesture in sending them such an interesting person, he half-suspected that he got saddled with the assistance because the others of the Legion were rather aggravated by the attitude of the IVth Legion’s emissary. With a chuckle, he also remembered a certain almost-finished experiment that earned him the ire of the Gorgon and the Mechanicum, making it likely that his current assignment was also a punishment.

Well, their loss. The Omnissiah has not made his displeasure known, so in all likelihood he was on the right track. The emissary may have been of questionable origins, and earned scorn from both the Legion and Mars with merely existing, but he inloaded data from the noosphere indicating the Fabricator Locum Kane has personally dismissed the rumors about the malignancy of the emissary. And surely, even if it were bent on harming them, it would just be another facet of the endless, ever-evolving matrix of the Omnissiah. 

The Iron Father chuckled again, devoting a significant number of subroutines to assess the possible future benefits of close collaboration between the Fourth and the Tenth. What wonders they could create, if the dogged determination and steadfastness of the latter was melded with the constant strive for betterment and sheer humanity of the former? In a way, he supposed his Primarch was right, he was amongst the few in the Legion who was careless (or insane, or open-minded) enough to try merging the spirit of humanity and the Machine God, to believe in and work on creating something that would please both, benefit both, enrich both…

His thoughts were interrupted by the door of the laboratory sliding open, and he could not stop himself from grinning as the infectious humor and bright vivacity of the emissary practically flooded into the forge.

“Salutations, Frater Thamatica!” The cheerful voice of his assistant sounded from behind. “I am science ready!”

 

* * *

 

 

##  Pit of Chains

The smell of blood hung thickly in the stale air. He could have perceived the crowd of his peers around the arena pit, but his vision was narrowing by the second, his entire being focusing on his opponent. The blade in his hand growled menacingly, eager to taste flesh, drink blood - to once again prove his mettle, even if against such a weak opponent. A part of his mind that was still capable of emotionless analysis warned him that not even the likes of the Fourth would send an emissary incapable of fighting. Nevertheless, sending such a weakling was quite the offense - even if the emissary had enough spine to accept the challenge when the Primarch’s equerry and Captain Sarrin explained the customs to her. She even had the temerity to smile when entering the pits, almost as if she was walking in familiar territory! How quickly she lost that naive, foolish grin when she saw Delvarus and Ehrlen duelling until third blood.

They duelled for the rights of challenging the emissary of the Fourth beforehand, so he eagerly stepped into the pit, gunning his chainaxe. He flashed a vicious smirk at her when she stiffened at the thought of being chained together - then gave a grudging nod as she stepped forth, xiphos and shield ready.  

He blurred forward, axe swinging directly towards her stomach, but the emissary leant back, the whirring teeth passing above her by maybe a handspan. She tried to turn it into a flip, intending to get behind him, but his free hand closed on the chain binding them together, and yanked her close, the handle of his axe driving the air from her lungs, bending her double, making her spit blood. He relished it for a moment, then struck again, axe blurring for her shield-arm. The emissary barely evaded, then again as he grabbed for her with one hand, the one-handed axe strike clashing against the shield, the growling teeth shrieking as they slid over the alloyed material. He leapt back, and looked down incredulously - blood trickled down his arm where her sword stabbed into it. He grinned at her savagely, the look in her eyes making the Nails sing ever louder in his brains. Nobody should dare to look at him, at any of them like that!

He again yanked on the chain, his axe slashing out to cut into her body - only for the swing to go wide as his enemy didn’t budge. A small, sad and bitter smile marred the face of the woman, then she  _ moved _ . He was forced back a step, then another, and another, the Nails screaming, roaring in his brain, demanding blood, her blood, any blood! He roared, and the pit filled with the clash of adamantium meeting Dust-alloyed steel, geneforged muscles straining against Aura-enhanced ones - on the rare occasions she could be caught in a blade lock. The small, sane part of his mind catalogued the moves and attributes the emissary used, admiring her agility and grace as she danced around him in a whirl of red hair and red blades. The larger part of his brain, the one being swallowed by the tide of the Nails, simply wanted to wound her, kill her, end her - and damn the consequences!

He growled, a bestial, hungry sound as he charged at the woman again, intent to bury her under his massive bulk, and tear off her arms before ripping off her head … then stumbled as she ducked to the side at the last moment before pulverizing his knee with a savage kick. His rage-fuelled strike was blocked by her shield, but he could feel her weakening - though if not for the hungry song in his brains, he would have noted that from the beginning, she never took the blows directly on her shield, she always held it at an angle, letting them slide off, redirecting them, wary of matching her arm’s strength with the fury of his strikes.

Bellowing from pain, humiliation, and incandescent fury, he threw himself at her in a whirlwind of blades, his eyes, his whole being sharpening into a singular focus - the totality of what being a son of the Lord of the Red Sands meant for him. He didn’t notice (or rather, didn’t care) about the wounds her lightning-quick stabs opened at his arms, legs, and sides - he was a World Eater, and he would die before he allowed a jumped-up mortal to best him on the duelling sands! He was going to gut her, and…

Equerry Kharn grinned at the panting, red-haired emissary, who stood trembling over the corpse of the fallen Legionary, her blade spearing into his brain from under his jaw, her eyes filled with sorrow and a measure of horrified pride as the circle of watching Astartes howled in glee and cheered her.

“Well fought, Pyrrha Nikos. I think you will get along with us splendidly.”

 

* * *

 

 

##  Bling?

With an inquisitive eye, Coco Adel examined the walls and alcoves of the hallway. Despite the overall tendency to use shades of red, the ornamentation and artwork was exquisite. Sure, not all of these may have been “perfect” from a dispassionate, technical point of view, but they were all quality pieces, with a warmth and vibrant emotions that made her feel proud to be a human.

As she walked along the hallway, enjoying the white marble sculptures, gold and red tapestries, paintings and murals of Astartes and human alike, she chuckled and shook her head ruefully, as she made a mental note to needle Fox later - while he was right and she should have dressed differently, standing out also had merits. And it’s not like her clothes were lacking in style or quality; still it may have been more diplomatic to employ more of the colors and iconography of Baal, instead of Remnant … but then again, why should she deny her allegiance? Going by that brutish Captain Amit, honesty and bluntness certainly had a place in the court of the Great Angel. 

As she neared the gates at the far end, she started to prepare herself mentally - meeting one of the Emperor’s geneforged sons was not something one could endure easily, if one wanted to keep coherent and avoid being reduced to a stammering wreck. Sure, the Lord of Dust didn’t have that sizable an effect, but that was likely due to the fact that he was a part of Remnant’s legends and everyday life for decades, so she and her generation had plenty of time to get accustomed to his presence. And since he selected Velvet as one of his chief aides, Team CFVY as a whole got a much larger dose of Primarch proximity than entire cities of Remnant, combined. Still, she had to make a good impression - not just because her friends and liege would tease her about it otherwise, but because she owed it to herself.

With a sigh, she squared her shoulders, and nodded at the Chapter serfs at the gate before stepping into the Court of Angels. Her first impression of a blinding golden radiance, the light dissolving into blood-red silhouettes of Legionaries. She knew a number of them by reputation, of course - the blunt form of Captain Amit was  easy to recognize, as was the graceful form of Captain Furio (she mentally had to suppress a giggle at her attempt to discern if his armor really was purple instead of red). Azkaellon, the leader of the Sanguinary Guard was obviously present on the central dais, and Coco had to admit that the chief bodyguard of the Great Angel certainly looked as if he stepped out of an ancient religious text, ready to smite the unworthy. Even with all the luminaries present, two stood out obviously to her eyes - one expected, the other, much less so.

In the center, the winged, beautiful figure of Primarch Sanguinius was an awe-inspiring sight, and Coco could well understand how and why a significant number of Imperial citizens wanted to worship both the Lord of Angels and his father for creating such a luminous, perfect being. She could feel the measuring gaze of the Primarch, but it was a curiously warm, encouraging, uplifting feeling - he did not look down on her, but looked for ways on how to help her ascend, how to be better, how to harness whatever strength she had. Her heart leapt, as she expected - and not just because the Primarch was the most perfect vision of artistic beauty and impeccable style that ever existed in the Imperium. Forget the vainglory of the Third Legion - here was the unvarnished, effortless perfection and harmony the Emperor’s Children still struggled to emulate; and struggle they would, for all eternity, unable to match it for the simple reason of accentuating the external, the obvious. She knew, saw, that although the Angel’s form and features were as perfect as humanly (or inhumanly) possible, still his greatest claim to adoration was the peerless nobility he radiated, his ornamental plate and pearl-adorned vast pinions just accentuating the regal, warm beauty of his flawless, patrician countenance, which was transformed into a heartbreaking beauty when he smiled at her in welcome.

And then her heart skipped again, as she laid eyes on the warrior at Sanguinius’ right. Compared to the others present (save for Amit, of course), he was clad in drab, functional warplate, only his pauldrons and the winged right armlet bearing any ostentation. His face was not the sculpted perfection of most Angels, but a plain, warm face that she immediately liked. The unknown, unadorned warrior simply looked at her with a faint, hidden smile, obviously used to humans becoming awestruck by his Primarch, yet she felt only kindness and patience radiating from that visage.

Sanguinius chuckled.

“It seems that for once, I am outshone in my own court - and by my own First Captain, no less!” The unmarked warrior and Coco stared at the Primarch simultaneously, both with jaws hanging open, the Huntress frantically sputtering to come up with a coherent answer. Her attempts were even further stalled when Amit laughed, the sound harsh - but without a single hint of malice or condescension. Others join in, and after a few moments, she herself laughs too, seeing the absurdity of the whole situation. Both the Angel and the First Captain smile, only Azkaellon is still grim. Sanguinius motions for her to step closer, and she finds herself in the shadow of mighty, pristine wings. The Great Angel’s voice is smooth, filling the vast chamber effortlessly.

“Let us welcome the emissary from my brother Perturabo, and the Fourth Legion. I believe this marks the beginning of an intriguing friendship.”

 

* * *

 

 

##  Nine Lives?

Normally, she felt comfortable and at home in darkness. She was used to knowing the shadows, using them, living within their safe embrace. Here, in this place, only terror and death lurked in the shadows. She padded along the corridor, eyes flashing in search of opportunities, ears straining for sounds of her pursuer. She refused to believe that something so vast, so bulky could move in such eerie, complete silence. With a curt nod, she leapt up, pulled herself up to the chains and catwalks crisscrossing the corridor above, and breathed out as her eyes closed.

She focused inwards, her other senses going to their utmost limit, then beyond them as she strained with her whole being to spot a sign of the pursuing killer - the muffled whine of servoes, the sharp tang of the active power weapon, the faint, cloying reek of dried blood, the knife-sharp emanation of killing intent. Nothing. 

Her breath hitched as the menacing growl of the vox-distorted voice spoke almost directly above her, a single, harshly uttered word that chilled her to the core.

“Preysight.”

A split-second hesitation, then she was falling, the edge of the lightning claws missing her by mere centimetres, her assailant chuckling, the sound dripping with lust for violence and blood, making her shiver. She landed with perfect balance, weapon tracking for the target above her, yet she found nothing, the Astartes seemingly having melted back into the darkness.

She stalked forward, ready to strike or defend herself, her ears twitching as she strained to listen - now, at least, she felt certain she could identify the very soft noises her opponent made when moving. Her eyes narrowed to slits, she sprang aside as the Legionary in power armor loomed from an alcove, his midnight-blue armor making him almost completely invisible - yet he discarded that when lightning played over the extending claws of his gauntlets, bathing the two in harsh blue glow.

She took up a defensive stance, ready to dodge and open the distance, as her adversary started to chuckle, the sound distorted into a menacing snarl by the vox … before her eyes widened and she braced herself as the sinister laughter transformed into a howling, atonal shriek that almost paralyzed her despite her aura and the built-in protection of her dress. She desperately parried the first set of claws, dodged the lazy swipe of the other, then fell back as her opponent started to press his advantage.

Her eyes lit up with fury - he was simply toying with her, underestimating her. Well, she would disabuse him of that notion. A brief concentration as their blades clashed, and then three shapes whirled around the bulky form of the Astartes, blades searching for chinks in his armor, aiming at joints, weak points. 

With a growling laugh, he rammed his fist through one of the images, while a hip-shot from his bolt pistol dissipated another, and the Legionary turned with menacing, glacial slowness toward his prey - a fraction of a second too late, as a flare of bright, blinding light exploded from the Huntress, and he felt her land on his shoulders, her blade coming to rest on his neck seal.

The lights in the corridor lit up, suffusing the place with a muted glow. A small group of Astartes in midnight-blue armor loomed from the walls and alcoves, and she could only gape at them, having bypassed at least two without detecting their presence.

“Well played, Blake Belladonna.” The voice of the Tenth Company Captain was a smooth baritone that she couldn’t help but like. “You managed to think quickly enough, you have good instincts - and you commit the same mistakes my overconfident brother here does.”

She did not expect the genuine, albeit dark mirth and humor in the laughter of the Legionaries, including the one on whose shoulders she was currently perched.

“Still, I believe your Primarch was right, we could teach you quite a lot, if you are willing.” 

 

* * *

 

 

##  By Word and Blade

He could always feel the contempt, the disdain everyone had towards him. Sure, some hid it quite well, and possibly there were a handful who did like him, but the overwhelming majority hated him - for being himself, basically. For his looks, his skills, his style, all facets of himself were ridiculed and badmouthed … carefully, behind his back, of course. After dealing with the first dozen or so, not one dared to criticize him to his face. He rose in the ranks, his skill, raw talent and intelligence coupled with a fierce determination catching the eye of his planet’s Lord.

He believed then that things could change. The foreign, inhuman Lord, himself a being of legends, seemed to understand and accept the likes of him much better. Finally, his skills and forthrightness were valued, and his voice, his opinion mattered, he could proudly lift his head and look down on his previous detractors who grovelled at his feet, baying for the crumbs of his attention, his influence. And he used that influence to further the cause of his own kind, in ways that weakling bunny could never contemplate. He even made life safer for everyone when he called for, then personally enforced a lull in more extreme activities, in order to see if the Lord their planet served did indeed keep to his word and uplift his kind to their rightful place.

When the chance came to serve off-world, among the stars, he was among the first to volunteer for these assignments, even if it meant leaving behind his home planet, and the cause for which he toiled endlessly. His associates would keep to their end of the bargain, or the safety measures he enacted would bring the Lord of Dust on them like an avalanche. With that taken care of, he steeled himself for the likely scorn and disdain the Imperials would likely heap on someone like him, even if - or sometimes especially - he was an emissary of a Primarch.

All told, he was pleasantly surprised. The initial meeting with the Seventeenth was indeed rather strained, but when he demonstrated his strength of will and fighting skills, along with the fact that he was not afraid to voice his opinion and stand up for his beliefs did garner him more respect than he considered possible. Sure, the Legion may be fanatical in their devotion, but that focused dedication to a philosophy, a cause beyond the single individual was something he was all too familiar with.

He took in the teachings of the Legion, opened himself to accept their Word, their Truth in the purest form, spoken by the Astartes he came to admire most. The shaven-headed, tattooed First Chaplain was perhaps the first person apart from the Lord of Dust who saw in him the potential to greatness, to look behind his physical shell and value the man beyond. Sure, others said the words, went through the motions, but he always felt the small core of resentment, distaste and disdain directed towards himself,or what was worse, he felt them look at him with pity and sadness. 

Looking back, he was not sure about the Lord of Dust, either - sure, he taught him a lot, entrusted him with sensitive tasks, put him in responsible positions ... but was that truly due to his own accomplishments? Wasn’t Perturabo only playing the social game, for some unfathomable reason? As for the First Chaplain, he felt no such shadow of duplicity. The Word Bearer was insightful, true, and viciously intelligent - one could easily believe that people like him could see in the hearts and minds of people with a glance. Yet the Astartes did not look down on him, rather took him on as a kind of disciple, inducted him into the fraternity of warriors, taught him how to see the truth behind the veil of illusionary reality. He learned so much - and when he asked what the price was, Erebus always smiled, and told him that the Word, the Truth should be freely discussed and widely known, and only short-sighted tyrants try to impose their will on the beliefs of their subjects, thus depriving them of the choice, putting the lie to their benevolent facade.

When all was said and done, Adam Taurus considered that he found a home away from home when he embraced the ancient, Primordial Truth that was the unspoken, decried, suppressed reality of their whole universe. And he felt he would be damned before he did not illuminate his own kind and homeworld about how their precious Primarch and Emperor lied to them, denied them the Truth.

 

* * *

 

 

##  Wild Hunt

Her long blonde mane streaming in the wind, Yang Xiao-Long whoops with the sheer unbridled joy of her usual adrenaline high, her companions answering with their own ululating war cries as the jetbikes scream across the plains, their engines straining at their limits.

A flash on the auspex makes her turn slightly, as the group speeds towards their unlucky prey, the green shapes already appearing as Yang crests the hill. She angles her jetbike towards the thickest concentration of lead-spewing greenskin, and lets loose with the bolters of her ride, her companions following suit. The hail of bolt rounds thins the horde slightly, enough to open ways for them to cross - and she notes the Astartes drawing their blades. Well, she doesn’t have one, and doesn’t feel like fighting from the saddle, as it were - with a few quick motions, she entrusts her bike to its machine spirit, before standing tall, Ember Celica deploying along her arms. The next moment, she leaps.

The roaring, bellowing Orks miss her, and then she is in the thick of it, Dust rounds exploding amidst the green tide, her smile widening with each beast that falls. She laughs as a Nob hits her, the crude choppa cracking her armor, possibly a rib, before her answering punch sends the head of the Ork flying. She kills with each punch, the recoil of her shots sending her zigzagging across the horde, always a step ahead of the dumb beasts, their rare hits only managing to make her laugh that much harder. She grabs the tusk of a big one with a hand as she turns behind it, her other hand grabbing the back of its head, and she twists, the sound of snapping vertebrae clear despite the howls of the approaching engines.

Her vision focuses only on the horde before her, everything in slow motion as the usual hyperawareness of combat takes over her senses. She weaves a deadly dance among the Ork crowd, as long as she has Dust rounds - when Ember Celica clicks on empty, all she has left are the built-in power fields, and her Semblance, supported by her own brawling skills. She tosses her head back, grins savagely at the incoming Orks, her first punch doubling over the leading beast before spinning away, sweeping the legs from under another, a quick stomp pulping the prone Greenskin’s skull. 

She sees the incoming, serrated blade too late to avoid, and she involuntarily winces in anticipation - then her eyes widen a fraction, her savage grin turning to a wide smile as the point of a power sabre punctures through the monster from behind, the Astartes tearing the blade across the Greenskin’s ribcage, ducking below the slash of another, his riposte opening the thing’s throat. Huntress and Astartes stand back to back amidst the screaming horde of bloodthirsty xenos, and together the two dance the ruin of their enemies. 

The sudden silence is deafening, as the last creature falls, and the jetbikes are silent, their riders closing in. Yang grins at the leader of the Astartes, taking in his green-spattered white armor. The warrior shakes his head as he takes off his helmet, and the Huntress’ smile widens.

“You know, you could just speak plainly, Batu Khan.” An inquisitive eyebrow raise is the only answer she gets, so she continues, a twinkle in her eyes. 

“First you give me such a nice, hard ride, then go the extra mile and arrange for a wonderful dance, all just to make me swoon.” She’s not entirely sure, but the twitching mustache likely conceals a grin, so she strikes a pose she often sees from Weiss when she’s being all official and stuffier than usual. ”I’ll have you know that my father may not necessarily approve of you, unless you convince him of your honorable intentions.”

She notices how his deep brown eyes smile at her as he nods, before the Huntress moves into another pose, making sure her armor accentuates her figure as nicely as possible, modulating her voice into a husky whisper.

“You’d better be convincing, though - I happen to enjoy a good ride quite often.”

His mustache twitches again, and she can hear suppressed mirth in the White Scar’s voice.

“My lady emissary, I already spoke with your esteemed father, and agreed on the bride price as well. Admittedly, I didn’t expect that he’d settle for twelve stallions - I’d have been willing to go up to fifteen.”

Her jaw drops as she tries to comprehend the fact that an Astartes can muster that kind of humor, before the growling laughter of the Scars proves too infectious, and she too joins in. The Khan of the Brotherhood of the Whirlwind smiles at her, worry and pride warring in his gaze as he speaks again, voice deep and serious this time.

“If you play with fire, sooner or later you will be burnt, Huntress Yang. And that would be a waste in more ways than one.”

She takes a deep breath, the euphoria of the fight leaving only tiredness and melancholy in their wake, and she nods at him, acknowledging the point.

 

* * *

 

 

##  Windows of the soul

The young Huntress decided that while being practically at Humanity’s cradle, in the heart of the Imperium, was kind of awesome, it was also definitely boring in more ways than one. She never liked the bureaucracy that Weiss seemed to fond of, especially since their deployment on Macragge, and compared to this, even Ultramar seemed as free and direct as Yang’s favorite Chogoris. 

With a sigh, she looked out to the admittedly nice sight of Terra rising over the horizon, her thoughts dwelling on the explanation Uncle Perturabo gave when he asked her to come here - and she sighed again as she once more had to admit that he, Glynda, and Ozpin were depressingly right. Oh, she did enjoy tinkering within the Magma City, exploring the wonders Adept Zeth created, and she hoped that the Rose-type boltgun would pass the tests and go into mass production (surely it would, she based it off Crescent Rose, and her sweetheart was  _ perfect _ ).

No, the reason for her glumness was her current location - the Somnus Citadel was not a cheery place at the best times. She tried to come up with a place that felt half as sad and full of regrets, but she couldn’t think of anything. And it did not help that the whole fortress was so silent and felt empty and cold - eerily so. Yes, of course the Silent Sisterhood was supposed to be silent, but even the novices spoke so little! If not for the regular contact with her team, she felt she’d have gone insane, despite her learning Thoughtmark, at least well enough to carry on basic conversation.

At least the strange looks lessened - she could not understand why they were so judging of her in the beginning, why the suspicion. Sure, she was from a frontier planet, and yes, she was just a junior Huntress, but why would she not apply herself when it was obvious how much she could learn from the Sisters? And the actual lessons were so interesting, and Lady Amendera (who taught most of them) was a rather patient teacher - she actually reminded her of Aunt Glynda back home, in a way. 

She snickered at the thought of the stern Huntress painting her hair purple, and tattooing her face - although she felt certain that her Uncle would not mind, and might even like it even more. Her snickering morphing into a partially embarrassed, blushing giggle, which then turned into a squeak as she noticed the tall, slender woman in golden armor looming behind her, head cocked to the side with a questioning gaze directed at her.

“Greetings, Lady Amendera” she noted the exasperated eyeroll of the woman, and quickly went on “I mean Oblivion Knight Kendel.”

The Sister nodded, and signalled, the gestures quick, testing - and Ruby allowed herself a small smile at being able to follow and interpret them.

“I was just admiring the view, and thinking about … stuff.” She sighed, and shook her head. “I’m sorry, did I miss a planned lesson? I thought you were occupied with … something about the  _ Aeria Gloris _ ?”

The taller woman’s hands moved quickly, precisely, her gaze boring into the silver eyes of the Huntress. As Ruby deciphered the meaning, she could not entirely stop herself from grimacing, and the Sister flashed a question at her, stance strangely resigned and ... defensive? Did she somehow offend her teacher?

“I’m sorry, Lady Amendera” her eyes never leaving the empty, yet somehow sad gaze of her teacher. “I understand perfectly well why you have to do that. But with all the gloominess and stuff here” she gulped as she gestured around, indicating the whole Citadel, “I guess I wonder why no-one ever shows any gratitude to you, why you never seem to get any kind of understanding? Why do people shun you, fear you?”

The Oblivion Knight’s head snapped back as if she had been slapped. Ruby went on, silver eyes starting to shine with something.

“I mean I get that you are supposed to be cold, and distant, and yes, at times being near a Sister is not a nice feeling, but you do so much, and ask for so little! In a way, you are just like us Hunters or the Astartes of Uncle Perturabo - you do protect people.”

The taller woman shook her head with a sad smile, signalled something.

“Maybe some of you do, I mean with how many Sisters there are, surely there must be a few jerks like that. But most of you are not like that, Lady Amendera. You would not be so sad otherwise - you care about those you take away on the Black Ships, you protect them from themselves, and prevent them from accidentally harming others as well. And nobody ever thanks you - or at least I never heard of anyone, I guess maybe the Emperor does, I don’t know...”

With a flurry of rose petals, she closed the distance, and the tall, armored woman stiffened as the young Huntress hugged her with surprising strength. The hands of the Oblivion Knight awkwardly patted Ruby’s back, as the woman half-closed her eyes and smiled bitterly.

 

* * *

 

 

##  Embers of emotion

Yatshuhashi Daichi was rather unused to others towering over him - sure, the Astartes were bigger than him, but not that much. But simply being in the same forge as the Salamander Apothecary, he felt dwarfed by the sheer bulk of the giant.

Usually, the two of them spoke little - he watched the Apothecary at the forge, occasionally assisting him by handing various tools, or lending a hand in expediting certain phases during the creation of whatever thing Atesh Tarsa worked on at that moment. It seemed the ebony giant always had something different to forge, and he figured that maybe half of the stuff was for the Legion or warlike purposes, the rest simply everyday items for the Nocturneans, or just small trinkets, with exquisite craftsmanship. If he had not known who made those, he would have bet that they were intended as gifts for children - and even seeing them being made, he was not sure this wasn’t their purpose.

Still, the silence did not mean he did not learn quite a lot from the Legionary Lord Vulkan set as his guide - and what he learned, made him certain that the Lord of the Drakes would be a quite good influence on their own Primarch. The time spent with Apothecary Tarsa taught him even more about patience, focusing on the task at hand - and what was perhaps of greater importance, about why Astartes should keep a close connection to humanity.

Just the sight of the immense Astartes who looked like he stepped out of one’s worst nightmare actually playing with children was something Yatsuhashi thought a certain overworked teammate of his would appreciate. With a smile, he took several pictures with his scroll, thinking about how to cheer her up later when they met.

The lava-red gaze of the Apothecary tore him out of his short reverie, the lips of the Astartes twisted into a half-smile. The young Hunter blushed, and the Salamander’s smile widened into a full grin, as he stepped back to his forge, and continued working on a small pauldron.

“So, is she a blood-kin, or rather someone you like?” The low buzzing of various power tools was a strange counterpoint to the mellow tones of the Legionary, as his deft hands worked on the piece of ceramite, even while his red eyes seemed to bore into the core of Yatshuhashi. The Hunter swallowed, then nodded.

“The latter.”

“Of course, she’s likely a delicate crystal in need of protection, hmm?” There was something in Tarsa’s voice, an undercurrent he could not identify. Yatsuhashi chuckled as he shook his head.

“No, she doesn’t need protection - or rather, she at times needs protection from herself, to remember that are other things than the anvil of war.” He could see the Salamander smirk and nod at that, the nod of the Apothecary conceding the point. 

“Then, young Hunter, you should bring her around one of these days, before we are heading back into the fires of battle.” Tarsa put aside the delicate tool he’d been working with, and examined the rather small, human-sized pauldron. “Otherwise, fitting her with this will not be easy.”


	7. Chapter 7

#  Initiation in Blue

“You know she is of age, my friend - and if anything, she’s as headstrong and eager as Winter was.”

The man in the white suit grimaced and glared at his immense companion.

“Still, this would be highly irregular, and you know it. Unless you want to let loose a Grimm on your brother’s fiefdom?”

The answering chuckle is brief, as Perturabo shakes his head, grinning.

“Let me talk to my brother. I’m sure that he can arrange something suitable.”

++++++

Weiss Schnee felt equally elated, terrified, and eager as she waited in the vast chamber. She knew her friends were out there, watching and supporting her - she could almost feel their Aura entwining with her own, warming and empowering her beyond even her own substantial abilities. A quick check of her weapons calmed her nerves somewhat; both her Dust cartridges and her precious family blade were there, and didn’t vanish in the minute or so since she last checked them. She started tapping her foot impatiently, as she waited for the door to open, to get the test over with.

With the grinding sound of straining machinery, the vast door to the amphitheatre started inching open. Weiss straightened, faced the emerging blue-armored Astartes, her eyes tracking over the scuffed, obviously battle-worn Mark IV armor, noting her adversary’s movements, trying to discern weak points and clues to his possible combat methods. 

The legionary marched slowly closer, his gladius still scabbarded, blue eyes glaring balefully at her from a viciously scowling, eager face - that expression took her aback a bit, she did not expect such from a warrior of the XIIIth. She readies herself, and flourishes her blade in a salute when he’s at the proper duelling distance.

The legionary’s minuscule smirk is her only warning, as she barely evades the blow aimed at her head, turning her evasion into an aura-enhanced leg sweep, that will force her opponent back. The legionary tanks the hit instead, the knee joint of his armor buckling beneath the blow, but Weiss barely managed to roll away from the kick aimed at her. She turns the roll into a somersault, opening the distance between them, her eyes narrowing in concentration. The legionary draws his gladius, and marches closer, circling to her right.

Weiss smirks, and with a boom of displaced air, she charges. Her opponent barely blocks in time, the two blades locking in a shower of sparks as Dust-alloyed steel meets adamantium. She feels proud for being able to hold the bladelock, matching her aura-enhanced strength against a legionary - though she knows it is a foolhardy move, she remembers her sister being able to do this against the Lord of Dust himself. Her opponent counters with a knee to her guts, and she groans while being sent flying, gasping for air.

The legionary closes, gladius stabbing with lightning-quick, economical motions, and for an eternal minute, Weiss can only focus on evading the thrusts, not able to open the distance. Still, she holds her own, and the moment she senses a small slowness as the damaged knee joint hinders the legionary, she strikes.

A white glyph spins into being under her, as she again races towards her opponent, ducking below a sweep of the gladius, her blade seeking armor joints, minuscule weaknesses, structurally vulnerable spots. Again and again, white glyphs flare into being around the legionary, as Weiss whirls in a dance of blades centered on him, striking at him from all possible angles, weaving around his thrusts and slashes, a confident smile growing on her face. 

Then, she makes just a small mistake, as she ducks from a slash that would have taken her head off, and even so, it slices away an inch or two from her hair. The close hit makes her falter for a microsecond, and that’s enough for an oversized hand to clip the side of her head with a backhanded slap, sending her flying as blood trickles into her left eye, despite her aura doing its best to stem the bleeding.

She feels as if time slowed down for them, and the legionary is only taking his second step towards her before she’s back on her feet, the revolver chamber of Myrtenaster spinning, a red glow coating the blade as she parries the legionary’s slash, unbalancing him for a second. Another cartridge is loaded, the slender blade stabs into the ground and blue light flashes as twin columns of ice race towards the legs of the Astartes, immobilizing him for the few moments she needs. A spin of the revolver chamber, a flash of green light coating Myrtenaster, and the blade blurs, stabbing deep into the wrist of the legionary, sending the gladius tumbling from nerveless fingers. With a roar and the strained whine of servos, he shatters the ice, unhurt fist barely missing her face as she pirouettes away from a kick. She closes her eyes briefly in concentration. A blue-green flash answers her a fraction of a second later, as a glyph launches the charging Astartes in the air, before slamming him down with a resounding crack. A last spin of the revolver chamber, and the Mark IV armor shrieks as the white-glowing Myrtenaster pierces it right above the warrior’s twin hearts.

The two glare at each other for an eternal second, before the Astartes starts laughing, ruffling Weiss’ hair, uncaring of her indignant shriek of protest.

“Well done, Miss Schnee, Legionary Pullo.” The cultured, measured voice of the Thirteenth Primarch fills the amphitheatre, without the need for amplification. “I believe my brother will consider this as a satisfactory initiation. I believe your teammates would like to celebrate with you, Huntress Schnee.”

 

* * *

 

 

#  Maiden, Raven, Seer

The bartender was nervous again. Admittedly, these guests too paid well, and opposed to that  _ other  _ occasion, they were chatting amicably, but still, he could not shake the anxiety and awe the trio radiated. He, like most residents of Remnant, recognized the woman - the raven-black hair, fashionable crimson clothing (complete with strategically placed accessories he desperately tried not to notice or have his gaze linger upon), fiery eyes and animated gestures made the current Fall Maiden rather easily recognized. Her two companions were not known to him by name, but he could not mistake the Astartes for anything else. Both were tall, and comparatively slender, whiplike, compared to the bulky shape he associated with Legionaries, and both men had a peculiar serenity and otherworldliness to him. The similarities ended there, though. 

The one in white was bald except for a topknot, his mustache drooping below his chin, his accent distinct, harsh - yet the tone of his voice was full of mirth and warmth, his weather-worn features more used to smiling than scowling, even when the warrior obviously would have felt better under the clear sky. The one in red was more like a noble patrician, his dark eyes and dusky features projecting cunning and curiosity in equal measures, as he explained something in a precise, mellifluous voice that simultaneously was relaxing and helping to concentrate. His hands were a blur as he shuffled a deck of ancient-looking cards, before dealing a weird spread pattern of about a dozen cards.

The bartender shivered, he felt as if Fate itself was coalescing above those cards, he could almost see the skeins of destiny bathing the ancient relics in multicolored light … then he shivered again, when he felt the cold, his breath pluming before the weather-worn Astartes made a cutting gesture over the table, and the cold dissipated along with the strange, muted glow, leaving only a spread of cards before the trio.

“You need to be more careful than that, Maiden Fall” - the harsh Chogorian voice was accompanied by a disarming smile. “Ahzek means well, but is sometimes too blatant in using power.”

The other Astartes snorted, and mock-glared at the White Scar.

“To think that a lightning-throwing maniac would have the gall to lecture a Corvidae about subtlety.”

Cinder giggled, before reaching for her goblet and taking a sip, briefly going cross-eyed at the taste. She sputtered and glared at Yesugei, who shrugged before answering with a certain glint in his eyes.

“Told you kumis was an acquired taste. Still, understand if you prefer Ahzek’s concoction, that’s certainly more … fitting, for a lady like yourself.”

“I’ll have you know that just because an uncouth barbarian can’t appreciate the fine art and results of viticulture, others tend to disagree.” Ahriman deftly uncorked the bottle, and the heady smell of the wine wafted over the table, the dark red liquid swirling to rest in Cinder’s goblet.

“Also one should not underestimate the symbolism and usage of wine for martial and official purposes.” Yesugei’s voice was now serious, a teacher speaking to a promising student, or an older brother to a favorite younger sister. “You and your sisters already have a good skill in direct application of power from immaterium. But in creating those whirlpools of destruction, you forget and can’t use the less overt aspects of the same power.”

Cinder cocked her head to the side, looking puzzled for a second, then smiled faintly.

“I think I see what you are getting at, weather-maker. You want me, us, to expand our powers and focus to include the philosophically and thematically appropriate concepts under our influence. The fire of courage and inspiration, the calm of winter, the rejuvenation associated with Spring, and so forth.”

The two Astartes exchanged a brief, satisfied grin.

“Told you she was sharp, Ahzek.”

“And I never disagreed, Yesugei.” Ahriman leaned forward, poured wine for all three of them, before reshuffling the ancient tarot deck. “Now, Maiden Fall, it is time to pay attention, even if you’d like to involve your favorite Primarch into your experiments with these concepts - unless you already did try them, hmmm?”

Cinder’s sputtering, blushing denials went unheard of under Yesugei’s unrestrained laughter.

 

* * *

 

 

#  Those who wait

Glynda was well aware how most of the people on Remnant thought of her, including all but her closest friends and family. Of course she herself cultivated that image over the decades, and it served her quite well over the years, even (or especially) at the side of the Lord of Dust. And the selfsame outwards personality helped her immensely since he had to leave on his father’s Great Crusade.

She never disputed the nobility and vision of the cause, had done and would continue to do her level best to support her Primarch and his Imperium - but there were limits to how much she could endure. Admittedly, she spent only a little time off-world, as Perturabo relied on her to train both Hunters and his Astartes … and keep an eye on Ozpin, prevent him from the usual insane stunts he pulled. She knew that a word from her could change all that, and she could venture out, see the wonders and horrors of the galaxy with her own eyes, always by his side.

In a way, that knowledge was a heavy burden in itself - she was still surprised how much influence she had with the Primarch, and how even the senior Captains of his Legion deferred to her, despite having no official rank in the Imperial chain of command. Then again, this only meant that she could not leave Remnant, what she did here was too important - and both she and her Primarch always strived to put duty above personal feelings. They did succeed for years, decades, so she had plenty of experience - which did not mean it was ever easier to bear, even when he was only away to another kingdom, easily reachable via CCT. Now, it sometimes took weeks to get word from him, and she worried - after all, she was amongst the selected few who were allowed to see his doubts, his tiredness, his self-flagellation after each hard decision he made; in essence, she was allowed to see the man behind the geneforged demigod. And she knew that the time of their final parting would come much sooner than either of them liked - after all, even with the rejuvenat treatments, she was only human, whereas he would go on living for eternity, unless some violent end claimed him.

She chuckled bitterly, pushing the dark thoughts aside. At least she was not alone - why would she be, misery did love company. The two younger women were apparently still deep in a similar brooding mood, and she thought she really should do something about that, cheer them up, or at least shake them out of the dark musings. She just could not seem to muster the energy, not today, not after all the bad news they had gotten. The 51st Expeditionary Fleet took heavy losses fighting against the Hrud, including Captain Dantioch - even if he survived, he would never be a frontline commander any longer. The 250th Expeditionary Fleet reported renewed heavy fighting on Two-Five-Zero Three, even though the planet was on the verge of compliance just a week ago. The astropathic choirs whispered with fear about a barbarous massacre of Imperials at Ghenna. And there had been no word from the Primarch for about a month. 

The three women, so different and yet so alike, silently brooded and drank as they struggled with the silence of the infuriating, irreplaceable man who, likely not intentionally, captured each one of them, binding their fates to his own. And Glynda thought that perhaps even in times like this, they did not really mind.

 

* * *

 

 

#  Primarch and Regent

The ramp of the shuttle lowered with a hiss and a spurt of steam, before Velvet Scarlatina heard the measured tapping of a tall, iron-shod staff. She stood straighter, as the new arrival was one who made her more uneasy in a way than the Emperor himself - it was easy to chalk up the inhuman charisma and immense presence of the latter as beyond even posthuman, but Malcador … well, the Regent was fully human, psyker abilities and extreme age notwithstanding. In his presence she almost always felt as an unruly child, never mind the fact that he treated her nicely, patiently, never looking down on her. Still, she could understand why her Lord preferred the old Regent to the Emperor; at least the Sigillite was human enough to  _ care _ , to  _ understand _ .

Malcador flashed a quick, tired smile at her, and nodded at her escorts.

“Mistress Scarlatina, nice to see you again.”

“Lord Malcador. Beacon welcomes you, as always.” Malcador noted the quivering ears and nervousness of the faunus. His voice was quiet, gentle.

“Is it that bad, Velvet?” A short, jerky nod was the answer, before the two subsided into silence, their path descending into the depths of Beacon Academy, to Perturabo’s forge. The vast gates opened reluctantly at their approach, and Malcador nodded to the occupants of the Primarch’s inner sanctum, before cocking his head to the side, weathering the furious glare of the Lord of Dust with a raised eyebrow.

“A whole world, Sigillite. Millions of people, a whole company of my Astartes, several Hunter teams, thousands of Mechanicum personnel, numerous ships including a Vengeance-class cruiser. All consigned to a fate worse than death just because my progenitor would not listen to my advice.” All present could see the edges of the hololit table warp under the Primarch’s grip, and the fury underlying his voice made even his friends anxious. Malcador sighed, and gestured for him to continue. “Tell me, is my realm not productive enough for the Emperor? Are my people not willing enough to shed blood in his Crusade, conquering in his name? Is my Legion too slow, too inefficient in its tasks? Does the Emperor,  _ beloved by all _ , have a grievance with us? Tell me now, Regent! Tell me, before I….”

The last sentence was punctuated with the scream of tortured metal, as the Primarch’s fingers clenched on the hololit table, his voice a venomous hiss that made Ozpin shiver, as he recalled their trek back from that battlefield long ago, when they first realized Salem’s betrayal - and he felt the same barely-restrained, barely-sane fury in his friend’s voice. He stepped closer, opened his mouth, but it was a slender, feminine hand whose touch made the Primarch blink. Perturabo’s shoulders sagged, and he seemed immensely tired, suddenly.

“Sorry, Malcador, that was uncalled for.”

Malcador smiled briefly, proudly.

“The Regent of Terra knows of no grievances the Administratum could hold against the Dust Realms, the Fourth Legion, or its Primarch. Quite the contrary, actually - your realm is shaping up to be as much of a model as Guilliman’s Ultramar.” The Sigillite’s staff of office tapped on the floor, the sound a warning of impending doom. “Still, even an exemplary Primarch would do well not to antagonize his father too much and too overtly.”

“Hence why I sent for you.” Perturabo’s smile was bitter. “I know well enough how my progenitor thinks of me. And frankly, I do not care. If he wanted mindless tools for his conquest, he should have made us as such. I told him in the past, I will tell him again: I admire his vision, and will do everything in my power to make that vision a reality. But I will do so my way. A more human way. Fortunately, I can work well enough with the actual, everyday ruler of the Imperium - and I still think you are a much better representative of what humanity should be than he ever was or will be.”

Malcador raised an eyebrow, noting the wary faces of the Primarch’s inner circle, the ever-present pressure of the Academy itself focusing much of itself to the forge. He chuckled, the sound somewhat bitter.

“For all your intelligence, you are still a child in some ways, Perturabo. Despite your differences, your father” he stopped the Primarch’s retort with a hand “as I said, your  _ father  _ is actually quite pleased with you. Just consider how many of your brothers would be willing to share such opinions, such trust and closeness with their people? Can you imagine the Lion doing this? Fulgrim? We need this kind of trust if we want to have a stable, enduring Imperium.”

Flashing a grin at the momentarily speechless Lord of Dust, the Sigillite continued.

“Now, show me what exactly made you furious enough to send for me.” Perturabo gestured, and the large screen behind them lit up.

“Ermina Secundus, a rapidly developing industrial world. A minority of the settlers are from Remnant, most of them from outside the Dust Realms. Garrison consisted of the standard PDF units, nine Hunter teams and a company of Astartes based off the Vengeance-class cruiser  _ Dust of Dreams _ . The pict recordings are from what we could salvage from the system fortress’ databanks.” 

Malcador watched as blood-red lines lit up on the surface of Ermina Secundus’ moon, racing to create a very specific pattern that made his eyes hurt even across the pict feed. The lack of sound made it even more eerie as the surface of the moon cracked open, darkness blacker than the void flooding out. Immense chunks of the moon erupted outwards, as the thing within tore itself away from its birth cradle, and rained destruction on the planet below. Explosions blossomed across the surface and the orbital installations, as the birthing convulsions of the thrashing creature bombarded its vicinity with the debris of the dying, shattering moon. A halo of flickering void shields and beams of the lance batteries signalled the defiant stand of the Astartes strike cruiser, its crew obviously torn between trying to blast the larger pieces of stellar ordnance in defense of the planet, and trying to kill the emerging threat. Attempting to do both resulted in them accomplishing neither, and the immense being extricated its vast bulk from the moon’s womb, rocks and darkness bleeding from within.

A cluster of hateful orange-red eyes ignited under a bone-white mask of bone, the body of the Grimm kraken swallowing light, orbital shipyards, lance shots, ships. It cast its shadow across the surface of Ermina Secundus, and Malcador could see the tide of Grimm darkness snuffing out the lights of civilization below. The beast’s maw yawned open, blanking out everything else, seeming to swallow a whole world. As the feed started to shake and tear itself apart, Malcador fancied he heard the satisfied, crazy laughter of a proud mother.

For a few seconds, there was silence, before the Sigillite turned towards Perturabo.

“How did you kill it?”

“Sustained long-range bombardment from the Legion fleet.”

“How many casualties during that engagement?”

“A significant number of ships damaged. None destroyed, luckily, but the crews took a beating due to the Grimm incursions.”

“You don’t believe that the Grimm awoke accidentally, do you?”

“No I don’t, Malcador. And before you ask, I do not believe it was Salem’s doing. She is powerful, true - but not on this scale, not in this distance. Someone engineered this.”

The whole forge seemed to pulse with the Primarch’s tightly-controlled fury.

“Someone or something tampered with the Grimm, unleashed a void beast on one of my worlds, against millions of defenseless people. There will be a reckoning with with the perpetrators, Sigillite - and if they turn out to be imperials, not even my beloved father shall be able to protect them from my wrath.”

The Regent of Terra chuckled bitterly.

“If imperials did this, you will have to be quicker than the Officio and Custodes teams assigned to the investigation.”


	8. Chapter 8

#  Dust Warriors 

**Homeworld** : Remnant (Segmentum Tempestus)

The world of Remnant is classified as a Death World of the Imperium due to the Grimm infestation and the localized warp rift centering on the Shattered Moon. Still, in part thanks to the presence of the Legion, the world’s population flourishes.

The surface of the planet is largely left as untamed wilderness, dotted with the fortress-cities built by Primarch Perturabo, and the Four Kingdoms of pre-Imperial times. These have retained their internal independence, as the Legion rarely steps in governing the planet - mostly because the inhabitants are still holding true to their ancient oaths to the Primarch, and the ideals of an Imperium that most consider a long-dead dream.

The orbital defences and shipyards are maintained by a sizable Mechanicum contingent, and the constant skirmishing with void-dwelling Grimm and creatures from the warp results in very proficient shipmasters and gunnery crews.

Remnant’s worth is increased by the still copious Dust repositories, which are employed in planetside defences, and infused into various articles of equipment manufactured locally.

**Organisation**

In the Primarch’s absence, the Legion Master, titled Dustbringer holds overall command over the Astartes, advised by the Seneschal of Beacon (always a trained, experienced human Hunter, chosen by the previous incumbent).

The Keepers of Dust fill in for Librarians - usually, these are not psykers, but those Astartes who demonstrate sufficient aptitude with Dust manipulation. The rare psykers receive tutoring from the Maidens of Remnant, in addition to lessons from a rotating cadre of Librarians from the White Scars and Thousand Sons. As an interesting sidenote, the official head of the Keepers of Dust, the Chief Librarian is always a mortal - either a powerful psyker, or an extremely skilled Aura user.

The Warsmiths take on the tasks of Techmarines - not all of these Astartes are taken to Mars due to an ancient agreement between the Lord of Dust and Fabricator Locum Kane. Still, the quality and skill of Dust Warrior Warsmith works is among the best in the Imperium.

The Chaplain-equivalent of the Dust Warriors are the Hunters, embodying a bridge between the strong Imperial influence and Remnant’s highly individualistic culture. Holders of the title are expected to encourage mortal and Astartes alike, leading by example, exhorting cooperation against the various foes of Mankind.

The field commanders of the Legion are the Captains, who hold sway over the teams sent to a particular engagement zone - thus, a Captain may command anywhere between a dozen and several thousand Astartes of the Legion.

The Legion also has a number of semi-formal titles for closely affiliated humans: the Custodian of Beacon and Master/Mistress of Arms are both filled by the most skilled Hunters Remnant can offer, the Master of Whispers is the head of the semi-formal informant network the Legion built up during its widespread campaigning.

**Beliefs**

" _ Through Dust, we wield our power. With Dust, we build wonders. To Dust, we reduce our enemies. _ "

The Dust Warriors still consider themselves the guardians of Mankind, of their Primarch’s dreams of an utopia where Mankind can flourish, safe from threats without and within alike. The Chaos of the Heresy dealt a severe blow to this belief, but the Dust Warriors are nothing if not tenacious.

The Legion struggles with upholding the ideals and tenets of their Primarch in the face of the constant war waged across the million worlds of the Imperium, the ever-increasing need for grey pragmatism, and making the hard choices. The Legion is spread across innumerable worlds and fleets, doing their best to preserve and promote the ideals of the Crusade era, and lessen the burden of the civilians they are sworn to protect. 

The Dust Warriors believe with fanatic zeal that their Primarch and his daughter are still guiding and advising them, as long as they uphold their ancient oaths - thus, a Dust Warrior falling to Chaos is virtually unheard-of. 

Due to their attitude towards civilians and mortals in general, the sons of Perturabo are generally considered among the most approachable and humane Astartes, along with the Salamanders, Blood Angels, and Ultramarines.

**Combat doctrine**

The doctrine of the Dust Warriors still has clear elements from the culture of their homeworld - their squads have fewer battle brothers, but due to their distinctive transforming weapons and Dust usage, this is generally countered by the flexibility each squad brings into the combat.

When on the offensive, the Legion defaults to precise strikes and hit-and-run tactics, relying on small, versatile squads, intent to delay and confuse the enemy forces until reinforcements can be brought in, at which point, an overwhelming weight of fire can be rained upon enemy positions, followed by strikes spearheaded by heavy mechanized forces up to and including Titans. Their efforts are supported by quick strike forces of Remnant’s native Hunters as well as their versions of the Martian Knights.

The sons of Perturabo have little problem deferring to mortal commanders, provided those demonstrate sufficient skills and attitude. This has resulted in very good relations with the Imperial Guard, and the Fourth Legion hunter teams are often deployed alongside Guard elements, as elite shock troops.

When defending, they make full use of their aptitude for incorporating Remnant’s mecha-shifting techniques into their fortresses - in fact, all permanent Dust Warrior outposts can easily be considered on par with (smaller) Titans at rest. As such, Mechanicum and skitarii attendance is all but guaranteed on such locations.

**Recruitment and geneseed**

“ _ We defend the Imperium with Dust and blood against all foes within and without. With science, we struggle to build a better future. We turn our every deed, every skill, every breath towards helping others, our existence spent in service to the Imperium first and foremost. _ ”

Most recruits of the Legion proper originate from Remnant; the inhabitants took surprisingly well to Perturabo’s geneseed. The only quirk this introduced is the marked decrease in the number of proper Librarians - instead, an inherent ability to manipulate natural and synthetic Dust alike is common to the Legionaries.

These abilities come with a price, however - the rejection rate for offworld humans is higher than in other Legions, resulting in comparatively less Legionaries.

**Warcry**

When going into combat, Dust Warriors rarely waste the energy for such frivolities, opting to let their weapons or abilities do the talking. On rare occasions, they use parts of their creed as a battle cry, especially when confronting otherworldly threats encountered before.


	9. 250th Expedition - I

##  250-3.1

In hindsight, they really should have seen this one coming. The sense of security, of goodwill engendered in the past few months with how well the people seemed to take the compliance had lulled them into a peaceful fantasy of succeeding in the bloodless taking of the world. Admittedly, the idea of this may have clouded even the vision of the Astartes - after all, it was a rare enough occasion even for Primarchs to find worlds who were willing to submit without a fight. Perhaps that bit of pride, of hope was what led to this day in the end.

Sure, there had been signs, but few and far between. The people of Two-Five-Zero Three did fall behind in the compliance timetable a number of times, but there was always a verifiable, honest reason for it; equipment malfunctions, severe weather, genuine medical incidents (which were even forewarned, no less) - and they always rallied after such events, their industriousness, their willingness drawing grudging praise even from the Astartes commanders. Even the most pessimistic estimates of the Expeditionary Fleet did not expect that they would be more than three months behind the projected schedule, and could continue on their way.

Obviously, that optimism shattered like a pane of glass hit by a thunder hammer. But in the end, recriminations (even though most of that was internal on behalf of certain figures of the leadership) would have to wait until the Imperial envoys salvaged something from the debacle. 

The Archon of the world stood on dais, surrounded by hundreds of his elite guard, the void shields of his palace a faint distortion of the air as he glared down at the figures who for so long claimed to be emissaries of the Emperor of Mankind. His glare was partially fuelled by self-hatred - after all, he himself had been taken in by the words of these unworthy impostors; and his cold rage did not abate when he considered how even the Church of the Weaver of Fate has been misled by these aliens. But no longer.

“You lied to us.” His voice was a venomous hiss directed at the white-haired woman who acted as the head of the delegation. “We were fools to believe your honeyed words. You consort with vile powers, distorting humanity into monstrous, inhuman beings who only know war!” The half dozen giants did not move, though one of the blue-armored ones had grinned savagely at him. “If that were not enough, you consort with foul alien beasts or uplifted animals, polluting the sanctity of human heritage!” The midnight-clad woman stiffened, her amber eyes narrowing dangerously.

“And you, Emissary, you yourself committed perhaps the greatest sacrilege in perverting the symbol and arts of the Weaver of Fate itself, with that bastardized sigil you proudly wear.” The cold fury of an offended aristocrat flashed in the white-haired woman’s eyes, as the Archon went on. “We reject you. We defy you. We will never, ever bow to false prophets like you.”

The sound of weapons powering up, of soldiers carefully taking aim did not seem to disturb the emissary unduly, even though with their unhelmeted heads, not even the genhanced brutes would survive a close-range fusillade. Thus, the Archon decided with a nod to allow her a few last words, even as he covertly signalled his priests to keep watch lest she work some unknown maleficarum on them.

Blue eyes shining with cold, implacable determination, the emissary spoke, her fingers unconsciously caressing the hilt of the ridiculous ceremonial rapier she wore.

“The Imperium would have welcomed you. We would have shed our blood, given our lives to aid you. We hoped to welcome you like long-lost, cherished kin - and now you spit in our face.” A quick glance at her companions, and the cold, measured voice starts heating up, tides of fury echoing behind the crumbling wall of her will. “You dare look down on those who endure pain unimaginable just to stand a better chance at protecting Mankind from the innumerable enemies swarming in the void? You dare look down on those of us who are simply not exactly like you?” Her fingers clenched on the hilt of the ceremonial sword, and the guards tensed, and the emissary half-closed her eyes, obviously fighting for control. “If you think to have our measure, if you think you can defy us, you are truly blind!”

And with her last word, an immense, complicated glyph of whirling blackness shone on the ceiling of the vast chamber, the weapons of the guards yanked towards it, distracting them for a brief second. The giants explode into motion, armored fists crushing weapons and  soldiers alike with contemptuous ease - the lack of weaponry no visible hindrance to them. The voluptuous blonde, her hands now sheathed in a golden, mechanical fist, fires at the Archon, the energy field of the dais flickering with each hit the blonde brawler throws at it. The caped woman vanishes in a flurry of red petals, the pack at her back unfolding into an immense scythe, whose handle cracks skulls and ribs alike.

Still, for all their surprise and skills, they will be overwhelmed - already, the black glyph is winking out, and the snipers on the balcony will ensure their defeat. The Archon blinks as a man falls from somewhere up, his cry ending in a sickening thud as he lands on the floor. Above, yellow eyes glitter maliciously, and the bestial woman grins, showing teeth, before the midnight-clad thing fades into the shadows. One of the giants gestures, red lines tracing from the scintillating prism on his pauldron towards his fingers, and flames fan out from his hand, the screams of burned men and women echoing in the vaulted chamber. Another gestures similarly, and wind howls from his gauntlets, blinding eyes, shredding cloth, cutting exposed flesh. A third sends lightning arcing from his hand, and that’s when the Archon realizes his mistake, his inability to use them as bargaining chip. 

No matter, that. In the long run, their Fate would have been death anyway - even if they escape from here, they will not last long, even (or especially) with those freakish powers of theirs, further proof of their unclean pacts. The emissary’s sword stabs into the floor, and ice races across the ground, immobilizing all who would stand against them. The white-haired woman takes a quick look around, evaluating the situation, but the shout comes from the red-clad blur.

“Blake, we are leaving!”

And from the balcony, shadows erupt in a tidal surge, blanketing the Archon’s great audience hall in darkness impenetrable even to the augmented eyes and sensors of his guards. When it lifts a minute later, the Imperial delegation is gone, and only the moaning of the few wounded is heard amidst the carnage left in the wake of the inhuman invaders. 


	10. Chapter 10

#  Iron Heresy outline

Events in the 31st millenium almost shattered the Imperium of Man. The victory at Ullanor, the technological achievements born from the cooperation of Mars, Nocturne, Medusa and Remnant, the Edict of Nikaea - all achievements, all progress torn down by the hands of Chaos.

Warmaster Horus was felled on Davin’s moon, wounded by a xeno weapon of immense malice and potency. First Chaplain Erebus, with the aid of First Captain Abaddon brought the wounded Primarch for healing in the Serpent Lodge, where the Primarch was swayed by visions projected by Chaos. He arose, and the seeds of ruin planted by Chaos-worshipping Astartes soon bloomed into open betrayal.

The Warmaster, with the assistance of Alpha Legion and Chaos assets, moved to clear his brothers and Legions away from his path to Terra. The White Scars were despatched to Chondax, the Blood Angels to Signus - one trapped by Orks and Astartes, the other by daemons of the Warp. Leman Russ was tasked by the Warmaster to eliminate the Interex, who were said to be responsible for the attempted assassination of the Warmaster. Perturabo was ordered to concentrate his whole Legion in the Dust Realms and prepare to operate against the Eldar. The Word Bearers were tasked to take Guilliman out of the fight, and left for the Calth Muster. Agents of the Alpha Legion and cultists of Chaos were used to plunge the Dark Angels into civil warfare, playing the Lion and Luther against each other.

Open revolt broke out in the Isstvaan system, where using a Chaos-fuelled rebellion as an excuse, Horus culled loyalist elements from his own Legion, as well as the World Eaters and Emperor’s Children. The loyalist counterstrike was nominally led by Ferrus Manus, with Corax and Vulkan bringing along most of their Legions, with strong contingents from the Alpha Legion, Death Guard, and the Night Lords. 

The ensuing carnage fuelled the apotheosis of Angron into the first Daemon Primarch, claimed by Khorne. Ferrus Manus sided with Chaos, and together with Fulgrim, they managed to kill Konrad Curze, giving birth to the Night Haunter. The badly-wounded Mortarion and Corax managed to escape the planet, as Vulkan went missing in action. The Warp echoed with the laughter of its thirsting Gods - before the former Warmaster of the Imperium realized his mistake. His own pride blinded him to the fact that he was to be simply a powerful tool against his father - to be used and discarded at whim.

Furious beyond even his brother’s insane rages, Horus shattered the barely-founded Chaos forces, and declared himself an unaligned, sovereign warlord. Most of his Legion’s survivors followed him, except for Ezekyle Abaddon, his Justaerin, and a few companies holding the First Captain in high esteem. During the infighting, Fulgrim was forced to bond with the Keeper of Secrets residing within his blade to survive his duel with Horus.

In the wake of the slaughter, Horus headed for the Dust Realms, to sway his brother to his cause, as the Lord of Dust was known to have voiced his displeasure and dislike of the Emperor. His answer was a resounding no in the form of a power maul strike, as Perturabo’s psykers managed to discern the events of Isstvaan, and the Warmaster’s involvement. Horus was forced to withdraw, and set about “enlisting” Orkish forces, aiming them at his foes - Perturabo first amongst them.

While Horus struggled to claim an empire from the chaos, the realm of Ultramar was burning within the Ruinstorm unleashed at Calth, as  Kor Phaeron and Erebus unleashed the immaterium as well as the unbound Word Bearers (now “free” from their genetic flaw of unshakeable loyalty) against the Ultramarines. Lorgar was almost killed by a Greater Daemon during the Calth Atrocity, and it was only due to the efforts of Argel Tal and Sor Talgron that he was saved. The two Word Bearers with the few remaining loyalists managed to smuggle their Primarch to Guilliman’s flagship - which later vanished in the warp in pursuit of Kor Phaeron’s flagship, the  _ Infidus Imperator _ , leaving Guilliman to try and hold back the daemonic tide.

The traitors did not rest on their laurels elsewhere, either. Ferrus Manus unleashed Angron on Prospero, to ensure that Magnus and his Sons do not interfere with his plans. The Gorgon tasked Calas Typhon to bring the Death Guard and Mortarion to heel - by any means necessary. This command would result in the conversion of almost the whole Legion to Chaos, as Typhon becalmed the fleet in the warp, and unleashed Nurgle’s plague on them. A small fleet of Thousand Sons vessels managed to extricate Mortarion and a small number of loyalists, but the Primarch had to be placed in stasis in order to have a chance at survival.

Ferrus Manus meanwhile lead his Legion along with Fulgrim and the Night Haunter straight towards Holy Terra itself, hoping to get within striking distance before Dorn could turn the Sol system into an impenetrable fortress. Thanks to the Schism of Mars, the traitors were successful, as the heart of the Imperium succumbed to civil war, and even Fabricator Locum Kane, with a handful of other loyalists, was forced to flee Mars itself, as the corrupted Fabricator-General’s forces, strengthened by Chaos, rampaged across the planet.

Ferrus used Mars as a foothold and staging ground for the last leap to Terra. Permitting himself a small sidetrip to the Vaults of Moravec, he launched his assault on the mostly-finished fortifications of the Imperial Palace. The Gorgon arranged for his daemonic allies to attack the Emperor’s Great Work from the depths of the Warp, ensuring that the Emperor was forced to remain on the Golden Throne, while Dorn marshalled the defence of the Palace.

The siege lasted for close to two months, with the traitors breaching the unfinished defenses not long before loyalist reinforcements arrived in-system. Perturabo, Magnus, Jaghatai, and Corax were quickly closing on the traitors, and Ferrus Manus, despite Fulgrim’s urging, ordered a withdrawal, leaving the Night Haunter to run amok amidst the ruins of Terra. Before running for the Eye of Terror, the traitor fleet managed to damage the City of Sighs and the complex housing the Astronomican with a parting orbital bombardment using weapons created in the Vaults of Moravec.

The loyalists managed to confront and vanquish the Night Haunter, mainly due to the efforts of Corax and the mortal hunter Yasu Nagasena. Dorn and Perturabo managed to retake Mars from the Dark Mechanicum, installing Kane as the new Fabricator-General, with Koriel Zeth becoming his Fabricator Locum. The Vaults of Moravec were obliterated, the whole area warded and fortified by the two siege masters and Magnus. 

Perturabo was left in charge of rebuilding efforts, while Dorn led Jaghatai and Corax in an effort to contain the nascent Horusian Dominion. Magnus headed for Ultramar, in order to deal with the still-raging Ruinstorm and the strange, alien psychic beacon shining from within. The Lion was ordered to keep a close watch on the Cadian Gate, to prevent the traitors from leaving the Eye of Terror easily. Russ was tasked to track down Vulkan, after the Emperor confirmed the survival of his son.


	11. Chapter 11

#  The Only Name They’ll Hear

The atmosphere in the Stormbird was tense, the engines straining at their limits as the craft sped towards the mining outpost. The Astartes were silent, even the usually perky and cheerful leader of the Hunter team seemed subdued, focusing on her dataslate.

There was no vox traffic, nothing of the regular, everyday chatter that such a mining outpost would generate - only during the final approach did the vox crackle to life, a dry, whispering hiss worming its way into their audio pickups.

Weiss turned towards Sergeant Vorenus, raised a questioning eyebrow. The Astartes replied with a shrug of whining servos.

“Theoretical: psychological warfare aimed to scare and discomfit us, make concentration harder, keep us off-balance. Practical: it does not work on either of our groups. May have worked on some Army troops.”

Weiss nodded, coming to the same conclusion, before her team leader spoke, a note of dark amusement in her usually confident voice.

“Theoretical: whoever broadcasts this either killed or vanished an entire mining outpost, guards included. Practical: they could easily make good on their boasts if we underestimate them.”

“The kid is right, you know.” Weiss smirked as she recognized the voice, even through the vox distortion. “I’m sure if I remember the Primarch’s relevant treatises, then you do as well, Lucius.”

The Sergeant let out a long-suffering sigh.

“Legionary Pullo is correct, the Primarch states...”

“Please spare us the lecture, Sergeant - we are here.” The tone of the blonde Huntress was eager, her posture radiated coiled tension about to be released. Vorenus shook his head with a small smile, then led his squad from the Stormbird. The four Huntresses shared a glance, then followed.

“Huntress Rose, I suggest you take your team and search the hangar, then head over to the comm tower. Should you encounter enemies, you’ll have space to utilize your fighting style there. I will take a fireteam to check on the reactors, and detail the other fireteam to check the underground depos.”

Ruby considered a moment, then nodded.

“Will do, Sergeant. Usual check-in periods over the vox?” After the answering nod, the teams headed to their objectives.

++++++

The smell of blood was almost overwhelming, even through the filters, and not even Ruby managed to retain her cheerfulness as they were checking the bodies in the communications center. The incessant, buzzing whisper did not help - Yang particularly looked murderous, just looking for an excuse to hit something. The Astartes hadn’t found any survivors either, or signs of the perpetrators of the massacre. 

Blake’s soft voice came simultaneously with the warning tone of the motion detectors.

“Over there, just behind the harvester.”

The four Huntresses spread out, slowly approaching the empty harvester, while Weiss quickly notified Vorenus of the possible contact.

_ “Samus. That’s the only name you’ll hear. Samus. It means the end and the death. Samus. I am Samus. Samus is all around you. Samus is the man beside you. Samus will gnaw upon your bones.” _

“It’s not coming from the vox … or rather, not just from the vox.” Yang tensed, Ember Celica shifting as the shells were loaded. Cautiously rounding the harvester, Weiss fought the urge to retch, as they saw who, or rather, what was gibbering the insane mantra.

It had likely been a man once - now, it was a pitiful, sore-covered wreck of a human, gibbering his insane mantra over and over, as he rocked over a half-gnawed human hand.

Ruby stowed Crescent Rose, and stepped closer, her eyes misting a bit as she surveyed the scene. 

“Rubes, I don’t think that’s a good idea, he’s...” Whatever Yang wanted to say, it remained unfinished, as the man’s skin started to undulate, as if something was moving beneath it. The whispering voice turned into a loud, cackling laughter, as blood-laced, drooling lips formed words.

_ “Look out. Samus is here!” _

Most other Hunters or Astartes would have been eviscerated by the suddenly elongating, bulging mass of an immense arm that speared towards Ruby, who sped away in a red flurry of rose petals. Flesh and muscle tore, as the demented thing was swelling, the newly-erupting limbs turning black and scaly, scorpion tails snapping and thrashing from the opening ribcage, the whole creature unfolding into a towering beast, twice the height of an Astartes, its iridescent eyes glittering maliciously, nightmare mouthparts chittering with insane glee on a face crowned with newly sprouting horns.

“Samus.” The thing rasps, in a wet, gurgling cough of a laughter. “Is here!”

Ember Celica thunders deafeningly, gouts of blood and pus marking the hits on the creature’s body. Yang closes, firing constantly, circling to the left as Blake goes to the right, Gambol Shroud stitching across the torso of the monster. Myrtenaster stabs into the ground, a black glyph spinning into being before Weiss, backlighting Ruby as the Huntress aims Crescent Rose at the monster’s head. The Exitus-pattern scythfle thunders, and the insane cacophony of the emerging creature is cut off as its head and half the torso turn into a cloud of offal and viscera. Silence. The four Huntresses look at each other.

“I can’t believe it was so easy.” Yang laughs, the power field of her weapon cycling down, the others relaxing a fraction as well, before Blake glimpses a movement at the edge of her vision. 

“Scatter!”

Her cry comes just a fraction of a second too late for Yang, as the thick, muscular arm of the rematerializing warpspawn sends her flying, a cloud of dust and debris signalling where she left the building.

The faunus tackles Weiss away from another arm, then swats a stinger away with Gambol Shroud. She sprints towards the creature - alone for a second, then a twin appears beside her, the two circling the beast. Mortal enemies may be confused for a crucial second or two, but the daemon does not hunt by mortal senses alone - its stingers follow Blake unerringly, the Huntress parrying twice, before the third strike simply overpowers her. With a pained scream she falls, her thigh punctured, eyes widening as the thing’s arm falls towards her, before her world becomes a whirl of rose petals.

Myrtenaster glows fiery red, as Weiss focuses, the beam from her sword burning away parts of the daemon’s form, eliciting a murderous howl. The air fills with the buzzing of countless flies, and the heiress shrieks as the creatures swarm over her, trying to burrow beneath the combat dress she wears, clogging filters, searching eyes, nose, ears. She shivers, falls to her knee, Myrtenaster again stabbing in the ground, as a blue glyph spins into being under her, small arcs of electricity covering her form, burning away the warpflies. 

She realizes her mistake a fraction of a second too late, as obsidian-colored claws descend on her. A flurry of red, and the gleaming edge of a scythe parries the claws. Silver eyes flare with determination despite the tears trailing down Ruby’s cheeks.

“I am Samus.  _ Samus is all around you _ . Samus will gnaw upon your bones.  _ Samus is here! _ ”

“Samus is gone.” A pulse of power, a flash of the silver eyes, and the daemon shrieks, falling away, flailing. The Huntress closes in a blur of red petals, Crescent Rose flashing with silver light as the scythe bites into the daemon again and again, sending it reeling, weakening.

With a vengeful cry, the young Huntress zooms up, seeming to stop in the air, her teary eyes burning with silver radiance, as she brings down her scythe on the daemon’s head, and the warp-spawned filth explodes, vanishing with a hateful shriek.

 

* * *

 

 

#  Bullfight

The tall faunus focused on his breathing, slowing it enough to bypass the sensors placed in the corridor leading to his prey’s office. His mask showed a labyrinth of sensor beams most others would think impassable - but not him. His suit masked him well enough, and his skills have been honed for years for much more demanding tasks - especially since he had detailed information on his prey’s habits, the various protective measures that protected her … and he fought to suppress a snarl as he thought of the numerous comrades who suffered to bring him the information. Still, this day would see them avenged - and after this, the Grimm Queen would owe him a personal favor; after all, he would remove a perceived rival of hers, allowing her to get closer to the subject of her obsession.

The fact that this would also remove a valued asset of the Legion, make the Tyrant of Dust wary, divert his attention - and with the evidence he intended to leave, send a message to the faunus across the planet, convince them that their vaunted Lord had carelessly discarded a close, long-time associate simply because of the Imperial disapproval of his kind. 

His heartbeat sped up as he stalked closer, body already tensing in preparation for the single strike needed to end the traitorous rabbit, a feral grin stretching his lips. With an effort of will, he controlled himself; only a few steps remained, and she was unaware of him, fully absorbed in the dataslate before her. A last step.

His vision tinted, the blade in his hand seeming to move with glacial slowness in a graceful arc, the impossibly keen edge cleanly severing the neck of the unaware Velvet Scarlatina. Lips peeled back in a savage grin, he felt his whole being burn in ecstasy - but only for a short moment. The realization hit him with the force of a power maul - there was absolutely no resistance to his blade!

Senses and sensors on high alert, he spun on the balls of his feet, as something grabbed his attention at the edge of his vision. The darkness in the far corner of the office seemed to deepen, shadows swirling and frothing in the silent darkness. A pair of golden eyes lit up in the black void, the cold, merciless gaze of an apex predator. White fangs shone forth in an expression better suited for something preying in the oceanic depths. The voice emanating from her was a low, sensuous purr, filled with immense malice and venom, resonating deep within his soul, twigging primal instincts.

“Hello, Adam.”

A fraction of a second later, a flash of actinic light rent the darkness, as a midnight-blue blade clashed with a blood-red one. Adam parried twice before he could center himself, going on the offensive after a lightning-quick riposte, forcing Blake back a step, then another. He dodged her leg sweep, and his blade flashed, time seeming to slow once more, as the cat faunus’ leg was cut away at the thigh - and Adam barely managed to twist away from the stab coming from the side, as three Blakes materialized from the shadows.

With a hateful snarl, he turned and fled.

 

* * *

 

 

#  Yardsnatchers

Lepus Pulvis Quartus. Ordinarily, an unremarkable, sparsely inhabited world in the Dust Realms. Currently one of the most important locations, due to the immense shipyard holding orbit over the planet. The planetary governor and his wife are amiably chatting with the command deck crew when the fireteam of Dust Warriors from the freshly arrived frigate enter, the Astartes moving to defensive positions after a cursory greeting.

The fashionably dressed woman tenses, piercing green eyes narrowing unconsciously at the legionaries. Something feels off, and she can’t put her finger on what. The giants are in position, their leader stepping to stand beside the command throne, and she fails to fully suppress a horrified gasp. The sergeant’s helm turns towards her, following her gaze towards the pauldron of a legionary, to the symbol of the Dust Warriors etched into the ceramite. Simple etchings. Not infused with Dust.

Bolters flash and boom in the enclosed space, precision shots killing security personnel and anyone with a weapon, the inhuman reaction speed of the giants coupled with the transhuman dread providing them with enough time to kill even well-trained guardsmen. The governor’s wife manages to dodge a bolt round, her long greying red hair trailing behind her as she throws herself behind a console, her staff of office unfolding into a short sword. The governor closes with an Astartes, his ceremonial-seeming sword flashing from its sheath, the blade’s edge missing the legionary by a finger. Blood spurts from the arm severed at the elbow, and the bolter clatters on the floor. The disarmed giant grabs for the human, his fist is however met by an unfolding breaching shield. He is unbalanced only for a fraction of a second, but that’s enough for a javelin to impale his helmet, felling the warrior.

The sergeant barges into the governor, ripping away the breaching shield, the human managing to escape decapitation by ducking below the blow. The Astartes-sized gladius and the human-sized longsword clash again and again, the human parrying desperately yet skillfully, putting all his aura into keeping up with the transhuman warrior, his vision focused completely on the legionary. The sergeant recognizes the pattern after the fifth exchange, his mind stunned to recognize the distinct style of the Dark Angels in the bladework of the Hunter. The realization is followed by two more clashes to make sure, then comes a shift in his attack pattern, as he starts the routines designed to counter the defenses learned by those walking the Spiral of Aldurukh. The elder Hunter smiles viciously, as he too alters his attack dynamics, forcing the legionary back a step, then another, and another. The old man silently thanks the dour, humorless Lucifer Black whom Perturabo invited to Beacon so many years ago, before driving his sword straight through the power armor, the Dust-alloyed blade piercing the primary heart of the Astartes, making the warrior stumble for half a second as his secondary heart compensates. The delay is too long, and the Hunter’s slash is followed by a helmeted head rolling away.

The Huntress meanwhile pounces from behind the console, a gesture of her hand deflecting the bolt round aimed at the governor. Her javelin is back in her hand, and with another leap, she drives her short blade deep into a legionary’s neck, precisely hitting the weaker seal of the power armor. The warrior still attempts to bring her down, despite drowning in his own blood. The Huntress kicks off from him, deflecting a shot, then the other, better aimed bolt shell throws her into a console, her aura almost completely depleted by the bolt round. Her eyes flare green beneath the tiara, as she drops her blade and raises both hands, void-black aura surrounding her fists. The two Astartes are lifted in the air, their armor shrieking under the pressure. Cracks spiderweb across the panels of ceramite and adamantium, then the Huntress clenches her fists and crumples the two warriors like ration cans.

Amidst the blaring of warning klaxons and the moaning of wounded, the governor and his wife step to the command throne, both breathing heavily, leaning at each other in exhaustion. A quick survey of the internal sensors and reports makes them both blanch. The enginarium is fallen, and the reactor has been set to overload. There is no way they could evacuate all personnel, but they may be able to stabilize the reactors. A quick check confirms that the internal comm channels are jammed. Giving instructions to the surviving officers, Governor Jaune Arc and Pyrrha Nikos start off at a run, to once again protect lives entrusted to them.

 

* * *

 

 

#  Fall of Beacon

_ Through Dust, we wield our power _ . My Father always seemed amused by that, though it was a bittersweet amusement, as if there was some hidden failure behind the motto, behind his own epithet. Surely, his own mastery of Dust is proven unmatched, not even Grandfather and Uncle Magnus can match it, with only Uncle Ozpin coming close, and he physically can’t use the quantity Father can handle. 

Perhaps this mastery is the reason for the current invasion - our enemies know that the main research archives are here at Beacon, and they doubtlessly hope that with Father and most of the staff away, they will find us an easy prey. A foolish assumption, but then again, our adversaries were never known for coldly logical, rational considerations - well, with the possible exception of the one who prides itself on unpredictability and omniscience. Arrogantly insane, that one - or perhaps inherently self-defeating? Interesting idea, might be worth discussing in depth with Father and Grandfather.

My brief contemplation is interrupted by an incoming call, the vidscreen showing the face of Warsmith Kalkator.

“My lady, the traitors have reached the outer perimeter.”

I school my face to show the appropriate seriousness to match his grave expression.

“Acknowledged, Captain. Do not worry - both I and Beacon are combat ready.” The Astartes nods, breaking the connection, and I close my eyes for a brief second, communing with the spirit of the Academy, as Father and Uncle James taught me. My mind races across connections, sparking off responses in the vast, ancient monolith, and Beacon  _ awakens _ .

_ With Dust, we build wonders _ . The words, the creed feel ashen for a few seconds in Warsmith Kalkator’s mouth, and not even his lady’s determined green gaze can quell his disquiet. He shakes himself, admonishing himself for those moments of doubt, as he feels the strange pulse of energy and the vast presence that seems to flow onto the battlefield. The effects are not really noticeable at first, unless one knows what to look for, and has quality monitoring equipment at hand.

The fire of the automated gun emplacements and servitors intensifies, becoming even more accurate, the swarming, undulating, scintillating mass of enemies at the walls is scoured away for a precious few seconds by the arcs of lightning and sheets of flame the Dust pouring over them from the CQC defenses. The whine and sizzle of the void shields lessens as well, despite the orbital bombardment still ongoing. The invaders already within the complex, the traitors being hunted by his killteams have it perhaps even worse than the attackers being massacred outside the walls.

Within Beacon, the floors come alive, trapping enemies in previously-unexistent rooms, instant-forming pit traps filled with fire or gravity Dust. At times, the complex takes much more direct action, simply opting to brain some with suddenly-loose panels, or turn aside bullets, foul their aim with suddenly rearranging architecture. He remembers seeing the blueprints, hearing the explanations from both his Primarch and Seneschal Ozpin, but after a point, he could not keep up any longer. Still, it was a source of endless amusement for the Dust Warriors to watch others vainly trying to understand the geometry and dimensions of Beacon. To their knowledge, only a handful outsiders managed the feat, and only three of them could be loosely considered less-than-geneforged demigods.

His awareness is focused on the immense Goliath battering down the western wall, the part-mechanical part-daemonic Grimm entity ignoring pretty much everything the defenders can fire at it. The Warsmith redirects more firepower to deal with it, knowing that it needs to be brought down, and knowing that doing so will deplete his forces dangerously. A shudder, as something brushes his soul for a minuscule second, then the night becomes day, the whole Academy seeming to sway and a deafening thunder rolls over the battlefield preceding the blastwave by microseconds, and the cheerful voice of his lord’s daughter sounds in his ear.

“Salutations, Captain. Engine kill at the western wall.”

_ To Dust, we reduce our enemies. _ That lesson is something Legionary Kroeger understands well enough - simple, powerful, evocative. Easy to follow. He grins savagely as his power axe bites into the skull of a Grimm attempting to rip out his throat, his bolter stitching across another beast trying to leap at a distracted Hunter, the bolts exploding the beast’s flank and skull into fragments of scintillating colour and smoky blackness. 

Like the others with him, he can feel the Academy awakening, and cannot contain a malicious laughter directed at the swarming Grimm and the traitorous mutants. He brandishes his axe, then wades into the mass coming at the breach, the urge to kill, to destroy threatening even his will. With a hiss of fury, he forces himself under control, taking in his comrades, Legionary, Hunter, and simple mortal alike, and even he feels almost moved as he sees not one faltering. He knows, just like they, that the only person who might have a chance at surviving this is their lady - and yet, no-one panics, the discipline of the Dust Warriors matched by that of their mortal allies. 

He sees Hunters tearing into the hordes of Grimm with lightning-quick hit and run strikes, covered by precision fire from the Astartes. He sees the normal, everyday human and faunus band together to help where they can, bringing ammunition, medical supplies, carrying wounded be those Hunter or Astartes. He chuckles bitterly, as he realizes that the Imperium will likely never know, never see the like of such cooperation, always underestimating and distrusting those who are even slightly different.

A flash of red makes him turn, and he snarls, racing towards the fine-clothed, horned bastard cutting into his comrades. The man wields a red-bladed sword with consummate skill and speed, cutting down defenders with precise, one could say perfect, strikes. Kroeger sights along his bolter for a microsecond, then opens fire, still charging. The figure spins on the balls of his feet, sword arcing in impossibly, inhumanly fast trajectories, cutting bolts from the air, before the mass-reactive warheads could explode. The bolter clicks on empty, the sword flashes, and Kroeger hurls his gun at his foe’s face. The gun is cut apart, but he’s close now, axe descending with seemingly glacial slowness to cleave the void-damned traitor in two.

A quick pirouette from the faunus, a flash of steel, and Kroeger’s arm is on the ground, still clutching his axe, and rich blood sheets over his armor, pouring from his stump and halfway cut torso. The walls of the breach groan ominously, their weight shifting towards them, as the White Fang turns to leave, to continue his hunt within. Kroeger’s remaining arm shoots out with lightning quickness, latching onto an ankle, pulling the faunus to himself, his voice a menacing snarl of drowning vox.

“Stay  **_here_ ** , Adam.”

The half-enraged, half-fearful scream of Adam Taurus is silenced by the sound of masonry falling, burying them both.

_ All is dust _ , Salem muses, as she’s striding through the halls of Beacon, her eyes casting a blood-red glare over the ruined place. The sound of her steps is muffled by the Grimm miasma suffusing the whole plateau, her children now finally tainting this accursed, symbolic building. Her greatest trophy is still borne along on a tendril of Grimm, the machine’s green optics dull, that annoyingly cheerful voice finally silenced. Perhaps this will turn the attention of the Lord of Dust back to her again. After all, it was so ordained, and Fate itself has Changed to reflect this.

Her steps take her past a gallery of statues - and Salem’s eyes narrow, Grimm howling in terror as they evaporate from the sheer power of her volcanic fury. With an insane shriek, she lets loose her power, and for a fraction of a second, she grins savagely as the likenesses of those harlots and meddlers start to melt. Then she desperately tries to reign in the destruction, to alter Fate, as the ruined Academy seemingly echoes with a vindictive chuckle in his voice, as the statues explode in flame, lightning, immense gravitic pressure, and a wave of  _ nothing _ . 

And Beacon Academy falls silent, alone, empty.

 

* * *

 

 

#  Whirlpool of Grief 

He is listening to the reports of his sons, and not even those closest to him realize that he is focusing somewhere else with almost his entire being. His eyes blink, and eternity opens its maw, ready to swallow him....

+++++++++

_ A titan of Dust and Blood stands tall, starkly outlined against the broken moon, a broken female thing lying at his feet, the warrior howling his rage and grief at the uncaring, cold stars, his sons and creations weeping blood, the red tide sweeping over world after world, leaving burnt-out husks haunted by the crimson-eyed dark things. _

_ And above all, the red giant of Blood and Brass laughs triumphantly sitting on a Throne of Skulls, the shattered body of a young woman lying at its feet. _

+++++++++

_ The Lord of Dust roars at the red-tattooed woman, who dances away from the blows of his power maul. She weaves a loathsomely sensual, repulsively entrancing dance around him, her words wounding the Primarch deeper than any blade could, the promise, the possibility within them slowing him, chipping away his iron will slowly but surely … until he lowers the maul, falls to his knees, and nods to her, the woman’s face lighting up in unholy joy as she pounces on him, finally kissing him deeply, the two figures melding into one, before the insane amalgamation howls/laughs/cries to the unfeeling void. _

_ And above it all, the laughter of a cruel, demented woman transforms into the guffawing of a cruel, demented man, as the eternally thirsting creature discards the husk of a broken young woman. _

+++++++++

_ Pristine, gleaming crystalline structures crackle and shatter as the rotting tendrils burrow deeper, as Nature itself seems to turn on the humans, the grieving Lord following the whispered advice of the kindly old Grandfather. All is Dust, true - and now Dust is alive, the gift replacing his lost daughter, the corruption racing along his blood, his sons, changing and altering all who ever wielded Dust. Perhaps if he creates more children, then she too will live again - after all, she was alive, and all that live belong to Grandfather. _

_ And above the distorted world teeming with life, where Dust consumes and creates life, the joyful, happy laughter of an all-loving parent echoes for eternity. _

+++++++++

_ The Lord of Dust is duelling with the lithe, female creature, the light of the warp engulfing both in scintillating colors as powers run unchecked. To match the creature, to mete out punishment for the broken young woman at their feet, the Primarch reaches deep, much deeper into his soul than ever before - and the Dust screams as power bleeds into it, the skin of reality torn apart as part of the Immaterium is flooding into reality, following the veins of Dust to find and empowering all who ever wielded Nature’s Wrath. The empowerment changes them as well, and human and Astartes alike falls prey to the overwhelming, seductive siren song of the power in their veins, in their genes, in their very souls. _

_ And above it all, Fate smiled a vulture’s grin as its plan was once again coming to fruition. _

+++++++++

… his eyes blink, and a glance at the chrono convinces him that his reverie took less than a second. His voice cuts across the noise of the strategium, as vast, white wings unfold, throwing their shadow over those present.

“Admiral DuCade, ready the ship for immediate departure and warp translation. Have the Covenant of Baal take our place here, and ask Captain Furio to oversee the troop withdrawal. Convey my compliments to Mistress Belisarius, and have her set course to Remnant. When we left orbit, have the Master of the Choir attend me.”

The admiral nods, snapping orders. A Captain in plain armor steps close to the Angel, his gaze worried, inquisitive.

“I believe a brother of mine is grieving, Ral - and I’m told that in times like that, family stands together.”

First Captain Raldoron nods, and watches as Sanguinius strides from the strategium. For a moment, he imagines seeing a black circle of swords dripping tears tattooed on the cheekbone of the Angel, and feels an almost physical pressure of sadness emanating from his Lord.


	12. Snippets of Future Past I

#  Symphony of Wrath and Flame

The skies of Ullanor burn with the flames of orbital lance strikes, incoming drop pods, crisscrossed with the contrails of the Thunderhawks and Stormbirds. War has come to the planet again, as the Imperium of Man aims to eliminate a bestial warlord holding court on this world once more. After this day, the Great Beast, the ancient Warmasta, the once-loyal son of the Emperor will no longer prey upon mankind. 

The landers disgorge tanks, artillery, Titans and Astartes, as the martial might of the Imperium is made manifest once more at the place of their last, greatest Triumph. As on that day in the distant past, three brothers lead their warriors against the green tide - the solid, immense form of Vulkan strides forth implacably at the head of a column of armor and Astartes, Dawnbringer smashing aside all resistance, flames from the Pyre Guard eradicating all that is Ork in their path. Dark hair streaming in the wind, Corax preys on their traitor kin from above, his dark-winged shape seemingly everywhere and nowhere at once as his claws tear the Sons of Horus and Alpha Legionnaires into pieces, his own warriors flashing in and out of the shadows, battling with the elusive servants of the Hydra. Immense white pinions cast the shadow of death on those who would face Sanguinius, as the Great Angel circles ever closer to the temple of the monster he once called his closest brother, his eyes alight with a terrible fury, as his great red blade sings the death of Orks and traitors alike.

Waves of primal green anger seek to drown the Imperials in the madness of senseless violence, to devolve them into slaves to their baser urges. The air shimmers around the advancing formations and reality slowly starts bleeding, as the covens of Librarians weave a shield for their comrades, buying them time and sanity with their own life, battling the Ork shamans beyond the veil of the Materium. Their efforts would surely fail, if not for the swiftly-moving auras of psychic void engulfing and erasing the focal points of greenskin witchery, as strike teams of the Sisterhood and Hunters take out witchdoctor after witchdoctor.

Lumbering Gargants bathe the attackers in a storm of shells and focused energy, the firepower enough to stop even the might of Vulkan for a short while, before Dominus Zhokuv and General Ironwood turn the might of the Adeptus Mechanicum on them. Ullanor trembles under the tread of mighty warmachines, as the Titans wreak havoc on the crude Orkish Gargants, their smaller number offset by the skill and dedication of their crew. With grim determination, the Imperial strike force pushes onwards, ever closer to enact their vengeance.

Hours merge into days, but even under the unrelenting pressure of the Dominion hordes, the humans do not falter, the sheer presence of and determination of the three Primarchs driving all onwards, dispelling fatigue and doubt alike. The Imperials bleed, suffer and die, but nothing Horus and his minions throw at them can deter the advance. Slowly, inexorably, the human warmachine grinds closer and closer to the great temple of the renegade self-styled Warmasta. With coldly calculated precision, Zhokuv directs the remnants of the attackers in establishing a cordon around the temple, while Ironwood leads the remaining Hunters and Sisters in a series of hit and run assaults against the ork psykers, as the three brothers go to face the Beast.

Within a vast chamber of the temple, Primarchs clash again, after so many centuries. Half dozen Orks, each towering over a Dreadnought, throw themselves at the trio, howling their challenge, eager to show their mettle in the presence of their bastard godling. The whole edifice trembles at the rapid crescendo of detonations as Vulkan meets the howling charge, Dawnbringer crushing even the bulky armor of the Prime Orks, while Corax rams his lightning claws into the throat of a bestial giant. A series of clashes too swift for mortal eyes to follow, and the two Primarchs stand back-to-back amidst a ring of titanic Greenskin.

Sanguinius notes all this as distant, unimportant things. His whole being is focused on the thing before him, a nightmare shape of once-transhuman flesh, the pinnacle of the Emperor’s geneforging artifice distorted and bloated by the loathsome energies of the primal Waaagh. The eyes of Horus light up with a feral gleam, and with a bestial, demented laughter, he beckons his beloved brother closer. The two lock gazes, and for an eternal second, time seems to stand still, before the Angel snarls, fangs flashing, and the fury held back for so long is released.

The chamber shakes, cracks spiderwebbing over the walls as Sanguinius launches himself at Horus, a halo of terrible light igniting over the Angel, his once-noble features morphing into a mask of divine wrath. The Great Beast countercharges, and the collision of blade and maul sends out a shockwave that makes the whole temple itself sway. The two who were closest once, so many centuries ago, clash with a speed and fury that eclipses even the fight of their brothers against the Prime Orks. 

The Angel stares in disbelief at the body of his brother, the jetpack sputtering and crackling, a pale, cold spearhead protruding from the chest of Corax, the weapon seeming to drink in blood, light, and life alike, Vulkan desperately fending off the blows from the three remaining Prime Orks, while trying to keep the smugly grinning Alpharius in sight. For a second, the shadows and muted green glow seem to suffocate the two loyalist Primarchs, then the Angel’s eyes light up, the temple trembling from his wrath fully unleashed, as the great red blade flashes through the air, a great, armored head clattering in its wake. Another Prime is felled when Vulkan’s hammer hits its chest, the explosion of power pulping the beast into a smear of green. Alpharius dances aways, parrying the Angel’s sword, before a kick sends him flying, his life only spared when Horus reaches Sanguinius, and the two clash again, the Angel a blur of red and white - and with a soft sound, the duel ends as a red blade pierces through Horus’ eye, into his brain, the energies bound into his bloated frame escaping in an explosion of green-tinted power, washing over the chamber, seeking to drown the survivors in primal rage and hatred. The Angel bares its fangs at the psychic storm, answering it with cold divine wrath, feeling the rocklike solidity of Vulkan at his back, as the two sons of the Emperor redirect the tide. 

Outside, the Imperials draw strength from the tottering of the temple, the percussive detonations from within a clear indication that the Primarchs are still fighting - and then the psychic wave of white-hot wrath washes over them, the wind picks up around the perimeter, a vortex of blood-red bands of light swirls into existence above the temple as a psychic howl of fury knifes into the minds and souls of those present, the Blood Angels throwing themselves onto the enemy with bestial fervor, and no foe can stand up to them - not on this day, not in this place.

 

* * *

 

#  Imperial Creed

_+Excerpt from a speech by Lorgar Aurelian, Primarch of the Imperial Heralds, made in 395.M31 prior to the founding of the Ecclesiarchy +_

The Emperor is not a god. That is perhaps the most serious mistake I made when penning the Lectitio Divinitatus. 

You ask me why He is not one, despite his immense power, wisdom, and vision? Well, after the madness of the Heresy, the answer should be obvious - and I have to marvel at the ability of a former remembrancer to grasp the one single, underlying truth contained in the pages of my folly. Why is my father not a god? Simple. The Emperor protects.

We all must remember how the beings of the warp like to style themselves as gods, and how they used and twisted all they could reach - my own brothers and sons among them. Yet when their servants were beset on all sides, when it all came down on the actions, the guidance of these gods, where were they? Did they stand beside their servants, lend them their strength, their help? Of course they did not, for they are gods, and like all gods, fickle, capricious creatures.

The Emperor is not a god. He stood shoulder to shoulder with his sons and the men and women of the Imperium in the great struggle on Terra. He shows us a path, a vision of a brighter future which none of us will live to see - but our children, our descendants will. Tell me, is the security, the peace of your children not worth fighting for? Is it not worth sacrificing for? 

The Emperor is not a god. He is a manifestation of Humanity, in its terrible brightness, in its horrific glory. He is the best and worst of us, standing always apart, yet always showing us the way. He is singular, but still a part of all of us. He stands alone, yet we always stand beside him. He is a part of us, and we are a part of him.

The Emperor protects. Of course, this is obvious to all citizens of the Imperium - they only need to see the Imperial Guard, the Adeptus Arbites, the Mechanicum, the Astartes; or even the officials of planetary governors and the Munitorum. Those of us who plunge in the void know that he protects us while we struggle to cross the darkness between the stars, and holds a light so we may find our way. Perhaps if you want to delve deeper, this is what the Emperor’s protection is at the core.

He is a guide, a light in the darkness - one that we may follow, that outlines the path, but it is we who must walk it, and protect that light from being snuffed out. The protection He gives us is no more and no less than the protection we give him. When we conduct ourselves with courage and honor in battle, when we practice compassion and reach out to help those in need, when we enjoy the scant moments of happiness with our loved ones allotted to our brief existence, when we work on the brighter future of Humanity - these are but a few of the ways we emulate and protect the Emperor as the embodiment of Mankind.

The Emperor protects, true - but we also must never forget how the excesses and recklessness can pervert the best, most noble virtues and dreams into horrific nightmares fit only to burn. Not one of us is free from that temptation, that intoxicating feeling of always knowing better; thus we must always remember how even the singular, peerless individual may stumble, may commit errors. Noone is perfect, as Mankind itself is not perfect; that is why we always need to stand together, to protect and guide each other, to never let our emotions get the better of us.

We have sacrificed much, and we will sacrifice more to ensure that the vision of the brighter future Mankind has been granted comes to fruition. We will defy all who would turn us from that path, all who would subjugate us, be it with the unreasoning violence of the Orks, or the insidious temptation of the excesses of Chaos. We will bring order to Humanity, order to the galaxy - and we have to keep a single, short truth close to our mind and heart.

The Emperor protects. Always and forever.

 

* * *

 

 

#  When He Falls

The forge around him hums with nervous tension as he dons his battle plate, the movements precise, measured, masking an immense fury that has been ripening for over a century. But finally, he is free to act. With his brother returned, the Imperium will certainly survive without him - especially since he has not spent the last decades twiddling his thumbs. His mind runs through the contingency plans, succession lines one last time, finding no fault. With a nod, he starts to leave, then pauses for a brief second, before shaking his head ruefully. No, his brothers would not approve - even though they certainly would understand him, they would not approve.

He pauses at the gate of his forge - surprise on his features as it does not open at his approach. With a sigh, he places his armored hand on the gate, closes his eyes as he briefly communes with the Academy, feeling the muted but familiar presence slumbering deep within the machine spirit’s consciousness. With a slow, reluctant whine, the gate irises open, and he steps through.

For a brief fraction of a second, he desperately fights to control his temper, to stop himself from lashing out, as he sees the Astartes standing in the corridor. Forrix, Falk, and Dantioch step forward, barring his way - and behind them, dozens, hundreds of his sons prepare to do the same. He lowers his raised fist, as he sees, really sees the armor of his Legionaries. Sure, the Dust prism is still there on the right pauldron, but on the left, each and every one of them has a circle of swords etched into the ceramite. His eyes alight with fury, he rounds on his Triarchs, the words of recrimination, of fury dying as they speak as one, reminding him of his own lessons about humanity, family - and about avenging those they could not protect.

With a bitter, defeated smile, he nods, and feels the grim satisfaction spread over the Astartes, who then immediately move to the side, falling in lockstep behind him as he marches for the hangar.

Another confrontation awaits him there - admittedly, deep down a part of him anticipated how his sons would act, but this, he did not see coming. A group of armored humans await them, most clad in the eccentric way of Hunters, but there are a dozen figures standing to the side, clad in gold, their presence radiating a chill which seems to sap the vitality and color from around the group. Internally, he curses and thanks his niece at the same time, even as he commands them to step aside, to let them pass. The leading Sister, an Oblivion Knight, flashes a quick explanation at him, her face determined, immovable. The Hunters mill around for a second or two, before a slender woman steps forward, a familiar box at her hip, and she grins at the Primarch as she takes off her helmet and shakes her head, gaze locked with the Lord of Dust. 

Perturabo nods towards the assembly of Sisters, Hunters, Legionaries - and then he surveys them, gives curt instructions, summoning a squad of Astartes to keep the newly appointed Legion Master confined on the ship. Dantioch rails, curses, pleads - and is silenced when Forrix punches him, telling him not to waste time and obey. The small strike force is readied quickly afterwards, and as the  _ Iron Blood _ enters orbit over the Shattered Moon, they are off.

Far below and behind them, on Remnant, the students of Beacon Academy who see the Headmistress are stunned at the trace of tears on her stoic, icy face as she stands in the courtyard, seemingly defying the encroaching shadows as the Shattered Moon slowly eclipses the distant sun, the triumphant, gleeful howl of the Grimm echoing on the winds, the primal instincts of humans urging them to run, to flee before the orange-flecked darkness comes to consume them. The clouds start churning, swirling in menacing patterns, then the first drops of blood spatter down on the surface of the planet, the overture of Chaos triumphant.

_ There’s a day when all hearts will be broken / when a shadow will cast out the light _

_ and our eyes cry a million tears / help won’t arrive _

_ There’s a day when all courage collapses / and our friends turn and leave us behind _

_ creatures of darkness will triumph the Sun won't rise _

_ When we've lost all hope and succumb to fear as the skies rain blood and the end draws near _

The silent darkness of the moon is alive with flashes of light, as the Keepers of Dust release their powers against the horde of warp-tainted Grimmspawn coming to consume them all. Psychic lightning scorches the beasts, before Nature’s Wrath is unleashed on the ancient enemies from hundreds of weapons, and the Terminators advance, the Hunters and Sisters flashing in and out of their lines, the Lord of Dust marching with implacable determination at the head of the formation, his new maul striking down every creature approaching him, the weapon systems of his armor spewing death and oblivion on the baying horde.

_ I will fall / but not like this, it won't be by your hand/ I will fall / at this place, on this day _

_ I will fall / bring your all, come try and take me down / I will fall _

Their destination is obvious, the scintillating, unnameable swirls of the vast lake of darkness blighting the surface of the moon will soon become visible from orbit if they don’t succeed. The horde presses in despite the withering volleys and storm of Dust and blades carving into the mass of warp-tainted darkness; more and more creatures crawling out from the ever-widening birthing pool of nightmares.

_ There’s a place where we'll stand outnumbered / where the wolves and the soulless will rise / in the time of our final moments / every dream dies _

They are dying now, Hunters cut off during forays and torn apart, Terminators buried under an avalanche of Grimmspawn, yet still they press on. Mere beasts will not, cannot stop them, as long as the Lord of Dust marches at the front, the Mistress of Arms at his side. The humans and Astartes kill even as they themselves fall, but fall they do under the relentless press of claws and teeth, with no end of the horde in sight. And they all know that the smallest tremor of fear, of dismay, of terror will give birth to even more Grimm. Despite all that, they forge on - when bolters run empty, they carve ahead with blades, mauls, and fists. Psychic hoods melt from overload and overuse, the Dust infused in the weapons and armor slowly gutters out. Eager for the kill, the Alphas move in, and all can feel the Grimm Queen stirring with dark satisfaction.

_ There’s a place where our shields will lay shattered / and the fear's all that's left in our hearts / strength and our courage have run out / we fall apart _

She flashes out from the shadows of her beasts, warpblade and eyes alight with gleeful malice, horrific eagerness. She tears into the formation, Terminators too slow to block her, the Hunters and Sisters too fragile - and she aims at the latter, the cold oblivion emanating from them anathema to her, a danger she is all too familiar with, and she acts to prevent her old love from pulling another trick like so long ago. Salem’s laughter fills the minds of human and Astartes alike as the last Null Maiden falls, and for a fraction of a second, the formation seems to hesitate.

_ When we lose our faith / and forsake our friends / when the moon is gone /and we reach our end _

On Remnant, mute horror spreads over the people as the Shattered Moon seems to vanish, in its place a baleful rift opening slowly, sparkling with unnameable colors that claw into the minds and souls of those watching. Screams of terror, fear, and insane, broken laughter mix with the hungry shrieks of Grimm, as the dark Queen comes to claim her domain.

_ There's a moment that changes a life when / we do something that no one else can _

_ and the path that we've taken will lead us / one final stand _

_ there's a moment we make a decision / not to cower and crash to the ground _

_ the moment we face our worst demons / our courage found _

_ when we stand with friends / and we won't retreat / as we stare down death / then the taste is sweet _

A muted blue flash from deep within the black sea draws in Salem’s smoldering gaze. Almost a dozen slender swords of blue light carve into the Grimm, clearing a small space around a slender faunus and an immense giant, before the swords close in, forming a barrel that starts to spin, glow intensifying within that circle of blades. A thick beam of incandescent light cleaves into the tide of Grimm, clearing a path between the Lord of Dust and Salem. And then Perturabo is coming for her. Wounded, tired, battered, but he is coming for her, and even the braying, baying horde of daemonic Grimm slinks back from his cold fury. She shrieks in rage, in hate, and with a concussive detonation that hurls away human, Astares and Grimm alike, warpsword meet Dust-alloyed power maul once again. The weapons clash again, then, with a darkly delighted, savage grin, her sword shears away the head of the power maul, the energy field sputtering and dying. She throws her head back and laughs triumphantly, before she aims an almost lazy slash at his throat, sure that the long handle of the maul will not prevent the loss of his head.

_ I will fall / but not like this, it won't be by your hand/ I will fall / at this place, on this day _

_ I will fall / bring your all, come try and take me down / I will fall _

Salem’s jaw drops as the Lord of Dust pulls the handle of his power maul apart, and traps her weapon between the two emerging slender black swords. Lines of silver flare up along the inscription on both blades, and for a second, she tenses, awaiting the dreaded tide of emptiness, the tide of nothing that has once swept her away on a battlefield so far beyond them. Perturabo’s face is a grim mask of satisfied determination, as his mind calls for Nature’s Wrath, reaching deep for the connection, the power he spent so long to find, to unlock. His will, his soul batters down the barriers his origins place before him, and the Primarch of the Fourth Legion roars his vengeance, as the twin swords of his long-gone daughter meet the unnatural substance of Salem’s neck. 

A tidal surge of incandescent, silver power pulses from them, sweeping across the surface of the Shattered Moon, burning away the scintillating touch of the warp and the black shadows of the Grimm alike, bleaching the rocks, consuming those who fell and the few who remained standing.

When the Legion Master and the Headmistress arrive, scant hours later, only a pair of black swords remain.


	13. Hunters and Legions 2

##  Blinded sight

The oppressive heat of the desert almost suffocates the slender Hunter as he follows his Astartes guide, matching the giant’s pace with a small but constant effort of will, using his aura to enhance his speed and endurance.

Their trek was a rather long one, heading straight into the Desolation of Prospero, with the Legionary not saying a word about the reason for the trip or the specific destination. Not that it would have mattered - as with most things the Thousand Sons did, the Hunter considered it a lesson and evaluation, as well as an opportunity to practice his meditative skills.

He frowned, as something twigged the bare edges of his perception, a faint droning of distant wings, a sound more felt than heard. He checked his auspex, modified its range, changed detection modes several times, to no avail. For all intents and purposes, only him and his guide were alive within a rather sizable radius. Still, his instincts had never betrayed him, and both at home and here the Legions taught reliance on said gut feelings. Thus, the Hunter reached out, touched the elbow of the Astartes, and stopped. The Legionary turned towards him, an eyebrow raised in silent question.

“We are not alone here. Auspex shows nothing, but I can feel something coming, some kind of flying creature.”

The answering smile was equal parts pride and bitterness, the circuits of the psychic hood pulsing regularly, a small surge of cold accompanying each pulse. The Hunter tilted his head to the side, frowned in thought, before his eyes widened. The Astartes nodded.

“Yes, you suspect correctly. The creatures you sense are called psychneuein, and I’m quite sure that you are aware of the danger they pose to our kind.”

The Hunter swallowed, nodded, his face a mask of focused concentration, his half-closed eyes moving rapidly as he quested with his senses and aura alike.

“There is quite a lot of them. Any practical advice on how to fight them?”

“Not this time. We are not here to kill them; methods for that are already known. No, we will be testing something rather different.”

Despite the heat, the Hunter shivered, his mind racing as he considered the implications of what the Astartes said. Still, he could see the logic and reasoning behind it, and the potential benefits were surely worth the risks. He nodded, swallowed, his breathing slowing as he focused inwards, his mind rising through the Enumerations as power swirled in invisible waves around them, before he reached out with his aura, pulling close and inverting the skeins of psychic energy, slowly weaving them into a form-fitting falsehood of concealment, layering the complex web of misdirection and invisibility extra deep - then the damned Astartes just had to open his mouth!

“You do know if you don’t succeed, and the psychneuein eat us, Nora will kill you.”

Lie Ren glared balefully at the smirking Legionary who seemed totally at ease - then again, being a Corvidae he might have already known of and made peace with his demise.

“Not helping, Sergeant Arvida. Not helping at all.”

* * *

 

##  Dust and Devotion

He looks down on the ruined plaza as the squad of Astartes moves in, their weapons slowly, menacingly searching for targets - not that they would find any. The great servant of his Mistress has already left, and the ground-bound giants had no chance to locate him up on his perch. Stifling a giggle, he cautions himself not to get too overconfident - his prey does have quite finely working sensors, and judging by the service studs, the sergeant has close to a century of combat experience. Hopefully, he will provide some sport, it has been awhile since he could pay proper homage to his Mistress.

He sways a bit on his perch, searching for the best balance, feeling his blood pump in anticipation as the five armored warriors come into range. His eyes alight with joy, he kicks off from the shadows, the aura-enhanced leap ending on the shoulders and power pack of an Astartes. His wristblades stab downwards, piercing neck seal and gorget alike with a shriek of ceramite, driving deep into the chest cavity of the Space Marine, then a short burst of the built-in guns shreds the organs of the giant, before he twists his blades, kicking the helmeted head directly at another Legionary.

With a sickening crunch, ceramite dents, the head of the still-alive giant rocking back from the makeshift projectile as the breathing grille of his helm dents, the red eye lenses cracking. The Hunter dives for the ground, narrowly avoiding the shots from the marines who scatter, firing, mass-reactive rounds cratering the ground as the attacker puts more Aura into his speed, his happy, shrill giggling filling the plaza as he dances around the bolter fire. 

He zooms to the side, and his own gauntlets spew bullets towards the already-hurt Marine, and he feels the usual warmth, the craved thrill as blood spurts from the ruined helm of the giant when his shots find the already-cracked eye lenses, and behind, the vulnerable eyes and brain. Thus, his second enemy falls, and his grin starts to fade somewhat - had he misjudged them?

A mass-reactive shot explodes against his chest, and he can barely duck below the swing of the sergeant’s power sword. With a snarl, he focuses again - he cannot allow himself becoming lax; he can never forget that this prey has fangs. He pirouettes from the precise, quick strikes of the sword, before leaping onto a roof with a burst of his aura, vanishing into the shadows of the partially-ruined building.

The building promptly collapses into rubble when the krak grenades explode, demolishing the already-strained support beams. The Hunter is forced to evade, coughing, barely seeing in the thick cloud of dust and debris, pushing his aura to keep ahead of the bolt rounds racing to kill him. Golden eyes alight with glee, he laughs in happiness - it has been long since he had so much fun!

He circles the plaza, weaving, dodging, heading for the sergeant, his Aura slowly but steadily decreasing as the shrapnels thrown by the near misses shower him. He ducks below the sergeant’s slash, rolls aside from the stomping boot, kicking off towards the Astartes with the Stalker pattern bolter - and barely dodges the bolt of electricity arcing from the gauntlet of the third Marine. He bares his teeth in a savage snarl - these freaks are not worthy to use that precious gift; only the favored of his Mistress should have that privilege!

With a hateful shriek, he throws himself at the Dust-using giant, the second bolt of lightning barely deflected by his Aura - he cannot play much longer if he does not want to disappoint Her Majesty. A last leap brings him within striking distance as he throws himself at the Marine’s legs, his blades cutting into both knees from behind as he rolls, before a savage kick to the thigh sends the Legionary crashing down, a quick stab into the wrist joint disarming the freak, a sinuous twist enough to evade the unharmed arm trying to grab him, and then he punches his wristblade through the breather grille of the helmet, his shots pulping the head.

The momentary satisfaction of the killing is almost his undoing; despite the distance, despite his bulk and armor, the sergeant closes with lightning speed, lines of Dust inscribing white-glowing runes on his armor - the mere sight of a humanoid tank like this speeding towards anyone would send most people into a panicked rout. Even an experienced Hunter like him feels this transhuman dread - the difference is that he can still react, is able to overcome his visceral reactions. Thus, he manages to dodge the slash of the sergeant’s sword, hitting the ground rolling - and then feels something wrong, something missing. He spots his hair, so carefully styled and fashioned into a tail lying on the ground, severed barely an inch from his neck.

He can’t help himself as he starts giggling, the sound becoming ever more piercing, before transforming into an enraged shriek, as Tyrian Callows kicks off with the boom of displaced air, the weaving, serpent-swift jabs of his wristblades forcing the sergeant back a step, then another, as the Legionary parries, the three blades meshing into a melody of violence. As he presses the Astartes, Tyrian keeps the last Marine in his vision, as the giant searches for a clear shot.

The three blades lock together in a shower of sparks and a shriek of tortured adamantite, servos and transhuman muscles straining against the rapidly depleting aura of the Hunter. The stalemate lasts for but a handful of seconds, not even enough for the last Marine to move into a position for a clear shot - but he sees his sergeant die, as the tail of the scorpion flashes and punches straight true the eye lens of the helmet. The slain giant topples bonelessly, and Tyrian dances on, intent on finishing the task, on providing his Mistress with the trophies she deserves.


	14. Of Ponies and Princesses

The shrieks of Grimm mingle with the screams and moans of dying humans and faunus as the ravenous horde tears into the inhabitants of Kuroyuri; the walls and weapons not giving nearly enough protection against the black tide. Perhaps a few of the former leaders of the community have time remaining to curse their obstinacy in not pursuing the new tech offered by the distant lord of Atlas - the very technology they refused, fearing the unsaid, unstated price tag they were sure to find attached to the rather effective creation kit.

Still, it is too late for that, as the dark tide sweeps over the walls, swoops down from the skies, barely hindered by the few determined defenders - and even their courage falters when the unearthly howl of something echoes over the doomed village, the sound making even the other Grimm pause for a few heartbeats.

The boy uses the precious few seconds to run across the plaza and slide under the house where he saw the young girl shivering earlier. She is still there, looking at him with huge, frightened eyes, her small frame  trembling like a leaf as he reaches out hesitantly, a small, tremulous smile on his face as she takes his hand, and his aura settles over the children like a warm, protective blanket, shutting out the horrors of the village’s destruction, the sounds of the Grimm consuming their prey. The two kids cling to one another amidst the carnage, shielded from a fate worse than mere death by the diminishing aura of a determined, scared boy who saw his father’s futile, heroic defiance barely minutes earlier.

The horde goes silent, and they hear it then; a slow, measured tapping coming closer and closer, hooves and bare feet hitting the pavement of the street, a cold dread spreading from every echoing step. The boy swallows, his focus wavering for a fraction of a second as he realizes this is the beast that probably killed his father - and now it’s coming for them to finish the feast. A wet, hateful snuffling sound makes the children tremble, as the Grimm searches for them, as if it sensed their presence despite the concealing aura. The two kids cling closer together, sure that soon it would end amidst a shrieking, cackling swarm of ravenous Grimm, when a new sound cuts through the restarted cacophony of destruction - the distinct, closing whine of a straining turbofan engine.

Nevermores leap into the air with shrieks and a storm of flapping wings, and the eyes of the children open wide as the beasts are dropped from the sky by a roaring storm of gunfire. For a brief moment, they smile at one another, hoping against hope that they can still survive - and then scream in unison, as the Grimm in the plaza howls. The sound knifes into the hearts and souls of all humans still alive, planting despair and death in their minds, its power distorting the very air as it ripples outwards from the nameless beast - and the engine sound hitches, stutters, then the plane crashes into the ruins of the mayor’s former residence, demolishing the broken remains of the vain tower. The erupting flames paint daemonic shadows across the plaza, and they can feel the dark satisfaction of the Grimm, as the beast howls anew, the sound full of triumph, hunger, and the promise of death for humans.

Something stirs within the rapidly-spreading flames, and two pairs of legs step into the limited view of the huddling kids, and their eyes go wide as they take in the sheer trunk-like size of the two metal-clad legs, next to which the other two, the ones clad in black boots are positively dainty. Silence descends on the plaza once again, and for a few heartbeats, only the crackle of flames is heard. Then the air distorts once again as the Grimm howls, the sound tearing at the ruined buildings around the plaza, and the chorus of Ursa, Beowolves and Nevermores answer, all converging on the two shapes.

A deep, rumbling voice asks a question, and they can’t understand the voice. The answer is clear enough though, the cheerful voice of a young girl echoing over the dying village.

“Don’t worry, Father - I am combat ready!”

The two children creep forward, to get a better view - and they are just in time to see the young redhead spreading her arms, a dozen swords raising in the air above her head and shoulders, all pointing at the nameless Grimm that looks like a nightmarish fusion of horse and rider, studded with the broken remains of weapons. Two abnormally long, thin yet nightmarishly strong arms shoot from the rider towards the girl, and she dances away from one and with a gesture, half dozen cuts blossom on the other as her blades bite into the dark matter of the beast.

The young redhead dances around the plodding Grimm horse, a smile of pure joy on her face as she evades the strikes of the monster with machinelike precision, her blades again and again opening gashes within the unnatural flesh of the creature, as the rest of the Grimm tide are torn apart by the oversized cannon and maul wielded by the armor-clad gigant.

The jaws of the two children drop as they witness something that few people of Remnant have lived to see - an Elder Grimm, its horde destroyed, turns and retreats, flees from the onslaught of blades and Dust.

A brief second of silence, then with the whine of straining servos, Perturabo marches over to the ruined building, holstering his weapons, kneels and opens his arms - and both Lie Ren and Nora Valkyrie run into that embrace, neither of them seeing the bitter smile of the Lord of Dust or the quizzical head-tilt of Penny.


	15. Giftmaking

She watched her companion with rapt attention, as the other girl was leaning over the complex machinery of the workbench, her hands deftly working the finicky tools, the precision of her work a thing of beauty to behold. Objectively, she was aware that she knew much more about the task and tools used than her companion; after all, this forge belonged to her father, and she had stood here on dozens of occasions, assisting him in various tasks. She possessed rather extensive data about the various scientific, engineering, and mechanical issues involved in their chosen task - or, to be honest, in pretty much every conceivable task, as her father asserted the importance of an extensive education. 

At any rate, just like her father, she knew her limits - and was well aware that artistic expression was not something she excelled in. Sure, she could appreciate the aesthetics, but her own attempts at creating objects of art were, at best, a mixed result. Perhaps with more practical experience, she would be able to make something that could be appreciated by others for said object’s sheer sensory beauty, but for the task at hand, she decided it was better to involve someone she considered an expert on the subject.

She allowed her mind to wander a bit, dedicating a sufficient amount of her attention to both her surrounding and the task of assisting her companion. She knew that her father would not be happy for using his forge, even if the aim of their project was beneficial for him. Still, with her brother keeping watch, she felt fairly confident that they would not be found out, and subjected to a long lecture about the dangers of using the delicate and experimental equipment unsupervised. And besides, it was not as if they were clueless or reckless - she made sure to learn everything about those pieces of machinery she was not familiar with, and her brother could always support them with his observations and past experiences.

She tilted her head to the side, hands moving manually to assist her companion in the delicate task of connecting the power cabling within the oversized gauntlet. The Dust-infused circuitry was a faintly glowing gossamer web in her vision, the complexity and elegance of the network a thing of beauty. Involuntarily, she could feel her facial expression subtly change, to openly express the wonder she felt - and her smile widened as she noticed the look of adorable concentration on her companion’s face, silver eyes shining with determined focus.

She felt a measure of warmth and happiness that she could provide an opportunity for bonding with her cousin - especially since she knew how much Ruby liked working with weaponry. Even discounting her own bias due to their relationship, Ruby was very talented with weaponmaking; one just had to look at Crescent Rose. She was sure that her father would appreciate the new gauntlet they were making him - sure, his old ones were perfectly serviceable, but she had it on good authority that people tended to value useful items given by relatives. And all three of her aunts endorsed the project as well, telling her that it was a good idea.

Two almost-simultaneous warnings jolted her perception back to the present. Her brother’s message indicated that father was finished with the meeting aunt Glynda, while her optical sensors notified her that Ruby has finished with the circuitry, and the new gauntlet was ready for the final test. She spent an eternal second computing the time needed to run the diagnostics to the amount of time her father would need to descend into the forge. She estimated they could still be in time, especially if her brother delayed him a bit. Well, there was no reason to tarry.

She leaned forward, fine tendrils extending from her fingertips, as she began running her diagnostics of the gauntlet’s components and various built-in functions. The power source and wiring was made from the highest quality Dust they could get - and with aunt Winter and Ruby’s friend Weiss, that was quality indeed. Her estimates projected that the power source would likely outlive the gauntlet itself, especially since her father sometimes liked to punch his enemies when sufficiently enraged. The embedded micro-weaponry would need some fine-tuning for targeting and deployment, of course - even with all her databases, she was unable to fully write the software to adjust to the Primarch’s possible reactions. And, as she ruefully reflected, his self-control and statue-like bearing made it even harder to program the responses. 

She crossed the built-in infowarfare suite off her checklist - true, it may not be very useful against Grimm, but it never hurt to prepare. And, she thought sadly, they had other enemies, beside the Grimm. Still, if nothing else, it would be sufficient for autonomous monitoring of comm channels, and for keeping her father’s family informed about his status. She was sure that the others, especially aunt Winter, would like that little feature.

The emitters of the power field were in good working order, as were the actuators for the muscle enhancement. The concealment assets were in place, the transformation process from gauntlet to ornate bracers would take but a few seconds, ensuring that his father could have the potent weapon close even in formal occasions - Ruby’s experience with her sister’s chosen weapon was rather useful when incorporating this function.

All in all, she was more than satisfied, and she could see that feeling reflected back from her partner’s silver eyes. Her sensors notified her of the imminent arrival of the Primarch, she was sure that he was, by now, aware of the trespassers. Though technically, she was allowed to use his forge - but admittedly, the instructions could be understood in a way that she was not supposed to work here alone, and certainly not past their bedtime. An unfamiliar behavioral pattern sprang to the forefront of her mind, was found strangely right, and the mimetic polyalloy of her body shifted in response, forming appropriate apparel. Pitching her voice just loud enough for her father’s enhanced senses to pick up, the undertones copied from her aunt Cinder, she spoke.

“Let us depart, dear Ruby - I am bedroom ready.”

The crash and cursing from outside the forge, and the stuttering from across the workbench made Penny only giggle that much harder.


	16. Outmaneuvered

_ This is a bad tactical situation _ . Perturabo knew that while he possessed perhaps the finest military mind on Remnant, he was by no means infallible - this current situation was ample proof of that. His adversaries lured him onto a battlefield of their choosing, already a grievous mistake on his part. The terrain and the circumstances favored their numbers and skills; skills he himself had seen in action, and had more than enough reason to respect. In fact, the Lord of Dust suspected that his adversaries were more than his match in this particular arena, further worsening his chances. He could not expect reinforcements or indeed any support whatsoever, as his adversaries have subverted his closest ally (the Primarch’s eyes narrowed in a deadly glare as he contemplated future retribution to this sudden but inevitable betrayal), and have cut off any potential cannon fodder he might have been able to throw before them while evading action and planning a counter-offensive.

No, this was an occasion where even the immense tactical knowledge that was his birthright would not avail him; perhaps a sibling with more martial affinity would have a chance (for some reason, the numerals I and XVI flashed in his mind, with the images of fogged stasis pods concealing vast potential and power), but his own predilection and talents were more for building and creation. Still, he vowed never again to underestimate the deviousness of normal, everyday humans as despite his nominally demigod-like abilities, he was apparently completely outfoxed by them, never even seeing this heinous betrayal coming (in hindsight, as usual, the plotting and scheming that led him down this path was obvious even to him). And now, he suspected, he would have to pay the price for his pride and blindness. Still, he was a Primarch and the ultimate sovereign of Remnant in all but name - thus, he drew himself up to his towering height as he faced his impending doom with dignity. Alas, his adversaries seemed disinclined to leave said dignity intact, as his superhuman senses registered the involuntary twitches in their facial musculature, subtle, minuscule signs of barely-suppressed, vindictive smirks, badly-concealed gloating laughter, and … was that appreciation and affection?

He frowned at his own thought - surely, they would not stoop so low as to gloat over the way he stumbled into their trap, now would they? With a minuscule headshake, Perturabo banished the unworthy thought. His adversaries may have engineered his current predicament, but he would not ascribe such base emotions to them, he respected them too much to think so low of them. Even if in situations like this he felt vastly exasperated by the trio of women in the process of cornering him. As if the mere fact of having to wear a tailored suit instead of comfortable lab clothes or practical armor would not be enough of an irritant, he had to endure small talk and inanity from both sycophants and a few genuinely curious or influential people - and now, the three women closest to him were backing him into a corner, for an unknown reason. With a raised eyebrow, he realized that this time, it was Cinder who took the lead, not Winter or Glynda. The Primarch braced himself, as the trio of women so alike yet so vastly different sauntered closer, their movement and clothing drawing too much attention from the audience, and Perturabo mentally catalogued the faces of people who would later need a pointed reminder from him that such reactions to the admittedly rather eye-catching sight would not be tolerated… 

He must have lost track of time for a brief moment (he mentally scoffed at the notion - a being such as he was not nearly so easily distracted … even if the sight of Cinder, Winter, and Glynda was rather … distracting), or the women teleported right next to him, trapping him in a corner of the immense ballroom. Before he succumbed to his inevitable doom, the Primarch glared death at Ozpin, who had the gall to smirk smugly at him across the room, and saluted Perturabo with his glass. The glare intensified, and the Primarch’s mind came alive with scenarios on how to make Beacon’s Headmaster disappear without a trace; or at the very least, exact fitting retribution. The problem was that even the genhanced, posthuman mind of a Primarch could not conceive of a fitting revenge for such a heinous betrayal. And judging by the seemingly physical weight of the three glares pointed at him, Perturabo ran out of time and got distracted, again.

“You did us a great disservice, lord.” Cinder’s usual sultry, purring voice carried the undertones of a raging inferno behind it, and Perturabo could not suppress his surprise at the accusation, his mind racing the pathways of memory for any slight or offence he may have given them - and perhaps unsurprisingly, he found none. The three women seemed to have read the minuscule alterations of his face and posture correctly, and glared at him in unison.

“He’s so adorable when he’s clueless, isn’t he?” The Fall Maiden’s voice was mirthful, pitched low, only for their ears, and Perturabo could not fully mask the look of affronted dignity he shot at Glynda when the usually stoic woman barely managed to suppress a laugh. 

“Cinder, get to the point, otherwise we’ll cause a scene.” Winter’s voice was precise, measured, yet there was something unfamiliar, hesitant in her tones. “Well, more of a scene, anyway.”

Glynda managed to control herself, and drew herself up to her full height, glaring imperiously at the Primarch - a feat that very few others could perform and survive be it on Remnant or elsewhere. And if her cheeks were flushed from some emotion, well, no-one present dared to comment as she spoke, her voice like a judge proclaiming the sentence.

“You owe both Winter and myself at least one dance, Perturabo.” 

“What.”

“Do not make me repeat myself.” Her eyes sparked with fury and apprehension. “Or have you forgotten that occasion where you and Cinder managed to impress even those Eldar with your skills on the dance floor?”

“Well, that was...” Fighting to keep himself centered and in control, his oratory skills suffered a rather severe temporary defect. Said defect morphed into a full-scale shutdown when Winter sighed, signalled something on her comm unit, and as the music restarted, she nodded at Glynda who took Perturabo’s arm, before leading the Primarch towards the dance floor.


	17. Family

#  Siblings

She is well aware that she is trespassing, and that Father would certainly disallow her entrance to this part of the inner forge. Still, she supposes that with the standing directive the two of them agreed upon for her behavior, she should not have too much trouble - especially since her half-brother is more than happy to lend his assistance in guiding and allowing her inside.

She places a slender, pale hand on the access panel, and holds herself still as the varied auspex units scan her, and a tiny frown blemishes her forehead. The security is tighter than she anticipated, and an order of magnitude more difficult to crack without sending the whole system howling with alarms. She wants to avoid that, since she can be certain that both her aunts on-site would give her a rather thorough scolding. Despite that dark prospect, she cannot fully suppress a snicker when she considers their reactions to being interrupted when enjoying the company of her Father.

Her face once again composed in a serene mask of attention, she closes her eyes, and her consciousness reaches within, communing with her half-brother, sensing his attention turning towards her, the vast presence sparkling with the joy of recognition, and then the immense gate of the inner forge starts to slowly inch open. She smiles softly, ensuring that her brother feels her pride in his abilities and her thankfulness for the help he rendered. 

Cold, muted glow outlines the shapes of innumerable minor and not-so-minor objects scattered over the vast desk, along shelves, in alcoves or in cylindrical stasis capsules, sealed behind plasteel and armorglass. Her eyes scan along the rows and rows of handcrafted artifacts, knowing full well how much of a privilege it is to see this eccentric collection - and a quick check with her brother draws comparisons with other similar forges on Mondus Occulum, Nocturne, and Medusa. She can’t suppress a brief happy giggle, and her eyes sparkle with joy at the thought of seeing, visiting, experiencing those places … provided their father allows her.

She then goes rigid, ingrained combat routines snapping into full readiness despite (or perhaps, especially because) the location, as an immense crystal shimmers with myriad colors in an alcove. Carefully, she steps closer, head tilted to the side as she contemplates the dance of scintillating colors within and behind the thousand facets of the immense Dust crystal. Her tension breaks as she feels a tentative, half-aware feeling of welcoming warmth radiating towards her, followed by a tinge of confusion, then a tidal surge of childlike curiosity.

Her hand alights on the crystal, and closes her eyes as minuscule tendrils extend from under her skin, testing, tasting, exploring the entity, opening new channels of communication between them, as she delves carefully within the half-formed sentience, kin but different to the machine spirit inhabiting Beacon Academy, tensing for the whirlwind of data exchange.

Green eyes snap open, as the vast crystal hums with something she can’t name anything else than joy, and a riot of warm, welcoming colors washes over the shadowy recesses of the inner forge, banishing the darkness - and illuminating the giant figure of Perturabo towering in the entrance.

Though it is technically unnecessary, Penny gulps as she turns and smiles at her father, a guilty smile on her lips, and she suppresses a wince when she sees the disappointed light in the ice-cold blue gaze of the Primarch. That disappointment vanishes by the time he crosses the forge to tower above her, and is replaced by a rueful expression she cannot entirely place. Perhaps if Aunt Glynda or Aunt Winter were here, they could explain - but they aren’t, and so she can only rely on her father to enlighten her.

The oversized hand of Perturabo alights on the slender shoulder of his daughter, and he chuckles.

“I suppose I deserved that, Penny.” She looks at him, her face puzzled. “When I told you to act like a child, a teenager, I should have considered the inherent curiosity and tendency to disregard the parental guidance.”

Penny squeaks as the immense hand ruffles her hair, and the Lord of Dust continues.

“Still, while it was a good idea to convince your brother to help you, did you honestly believe that I had only a single layer of security guarding my forge?”

Her smile is somewhat forced now, as she nods before speaking.

“Considering the complexity of that biometric verification and that it was tied closely to Beacon itself, I suppose I got careless, father.”

The Primarch grins as he nods, before replying, an undercurrent of something in his voice that Penny can’t exactly place. She misses her Aunts on such occasions; they can always illuminate her about the intricate nuances of being human.

“At least you are alive to learn from it, Penny.”

Her eyes go wide as she recognizes that undertone in her father’s words, and her hand instinctively latches onto his trunk-like arm.

With a shake of his shoulders, he shakes off the fey mood, the proud scientist and father returning. Even though she half-expects his next words, they still leave Penny shaken - but even so, her happiness and curiosity are much stronger.

“I see you met Baetylus, Penny - take care of it, as in a way, it is a half-brother of yours; or at least it will be with careful nurture.”

* * *

 

#  Burdens of brotherhood

On the average, Perturabo respected his brothers - after all, they all had potential and abilities comparable to his own, and in several cases their achievements outshone his own by an order of magnitude or two. He could respect the sheer capacity for violence best wielded by Angron and Russ, the battlefield brilliance of the Lion and Horus, or the fey, otherworldly power wrested from the warp by Magnus and Jaghatai. The gadgets and technological wonders created by Vulkan and Ferrus were almost exclusively things he himself would have to struggle to replicate. Fulgrim, for all his cocky, swaggering ways, was capable of artistic wonders comparable to the long-gone masters of painting and sculpture, and Sanguinius always has shown impeccable taste and a good eye for details. Lorgar, for all his delusions of priesthood, was an excellent orator, and had a very firm grasp on the human psyche. Curze and Corax both deserved his respect for their almost monomaniacal obsession towards justice and freedom. Guilliman he considered to be the best organizer of the Eighteen, and Dorn was only matched (or slightly surpassed) by Perturabo himself when it came to architecture. Mortarion was perhaps the best representative of the unyielding determination of humanity, just like Alpharius was the epitome of secrecy and clandestine operations.

Of course, as in any normal family, there were siblings he disliked for one reason or other; just as there were a handful he considered close friends and confidants, beyond what the obligatory connection of their ancestry required. A handful only, mind you; the Lord of Dust was not the most relatable of the Primarch, lacking the silver tongue and easygoing attitude to navigate the constant, ever-shifting minefield that constituted the relations of the Imperial family. Thus, he allowed only a few close to himself and his inner circle.

Dorn, the solid, blunt mirror to Perturabo; he would never lie, never sugarcoat anything - and that brutal honesty and unyielding determination would always ensure that the Lord of Dust was kept on his toes, always exerting himself to the best of his abilities.

Sanguinius, who got along with everyone, and who often needled and nudged Perturabo towards the paths where he could achieve his dreams of the utopistic vision always lurking in the depths of Perturabo’s mind.

Magnus, with the shared love of ancient knowledge, and the mutual fascination with unearthing the secrets of the past to learn from them and build on them.

Vulkan, for the shared closeness and empathy for the ordinary citizens; the understanding that ultimately all they did was supposed to benefit and protect the ordinary humans from the uncaring, hostile universe.

Jaghatai, the free spirit, who in many ways was his complete opposite - one always pushing the boundaries, questing, conquering, the other always building, enhancing, preserving. Yet they both valued and accepted the opinions of others, and did not consider themselves inherently above the ordinary humans - well, as much as geneforged demigods were capable of that, anyway.

With all that said, usually Perturabo welcomed and encouraged his brothers to visit his domain - both to exchange knowledge, ideas, stories, and to build rapport with each other and the citizens of his domain. After all, he was sure that with three possible exceptions, not even the Imperial family would survive forever.

The feasts that usually accompanied such visits were always large-scale affairs, drawing people from all over Remnant; even on the homeworld of a Primarch and the birthplace of an Astartes Legion, such events were considered portentous.

By all considerations, the current visit should have been a rather enjoyable, happy affair, since Perturabo was hosting Vulkan, and the two were always on cordial terms. Knowing all that, Specialist Winter Schnee wondered why her lord did not seem to enjoy the merriment, why he did not appear to appreciate the music and various trappings of such state visits. Sure, she knew that he was often bored and irritated by such trappings, but he bore it with better grace, especially when one of his brothers was visiting - and even more so when said brother was a close friend as well. So she could not fathom why exactly Perturabo was cold, irritated, and waspish in all dealings ever since the evening festivities started. 

Winter frowned in concentration, trying to pinpoint the moment when the sour, uncharacteristic mood started to take over the Lord of Dust. Her mind replayed local events, raced through the reports they received from all over the Imperium, the rumors their network collected, but she could not recall anything that could conceivably be viewed as the cause for this behavior. For a moment, she considered whether the absence of Penny was behind this - yet, she dismissed the thought with a slight shake of her head; the Primarch’s daughter has left for Mars months earlier, and there was nothing in the messages to indicate any problem with the journey. It might have been that he received some distressing information about the Two-Fiftieth Expedition Fleet, but then she or Glynda would have been aware of it as well.

No, this was something else. And she felt a bit out of her depth, seeing that the Primarch was starting to imitate Qrow Branwen, of all people - downing drink after drink after drink, glaring at everyone. Sure, she knew that his superhuman constitution would keep him sober, but the implications was not something she liked. 

She swept her gaze around the crowd scheming, whispering, dancing, and singing on the specially built amphitheatre of Beacon Academy, her mind swiftly communing with the Academy itself for a brief second to ascertain the security status - and she found nothing out of the ordinary. People were enjoying themselves, Salamanders mingled with the locals and Dust Warriors amongst the masses, Vulkan was in close conversation with Cinder, and…

Her eyes went wide, and her gaze snapped back.

Yes, she was not hallucinating. Cinder Fall, the Fall Maiden, was apparently enjoying the close attention she received from Vulkan, and reciprocating it to a rather conspicuous degree. Her body language clearly showed the interest and admiration towards the Primarch, perhaps even going beyond the level usually felt by mortals towards the Emperor’s geneforged sons. And the Lord of Drakes clearly enjoyed himself, the blinding-white grin of his a startling contrast with the Grimm-black skin and smouldering red eyes of the Primarch. 

Winter resisted the urge to facepalm when she realized that yes, that little tableau was what drew the glare of Perturabo. Honestly. Of all emotions, of all reactions,  _ this  _ is what he pulled? And while she had her differences and quarrels with Cinder, did he really think so little of the Maiden’s feelings towards him? Her eyes narrowed, the icy glare boring into Perturabo, as realization hit her. Did he think similarly about her or Glynda too? She opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind, when Vulkan stood up, gestured towards the musicians.

The band started with a jaunty, folksy tune, and the Lord of Drakes stepped to the dance floor, Cinder at his side - and with a gesture from her, a ring of fire surrounded the two, the flames dancing to the tune of the song, the deep, rumbling basso voice of the Primarch weaving an intricate duet with Cinder’s soprano.

Perturabo’s fist closed on the armrest of his chair, cracks spiderwebbing from under his fingers. His eyes shone with glacial fury, the glare only intensifying as both he and Winter spotted Glynda on the dance floor, held closely by Ozpin. The Primarch’s fingers dug trenches into the armrest. Winter furrowed her eyebrows, suspicion and something  _ else _ flaring in her mind, a small, cold smile blossoming on her lips.

“May I have this dance, Specialist?” The voice lacked its usual half-mocking, slightly slurred undertones, and as Perturabo whipped his head around, his glare almost cold enough to turn the Hunter into an icy statue, Winter Schnee nodded decisively, and placed her hand on the arm Qrow offered as he led her towards the dance floor.

* * *

 

#  Her Father’s Daughter

Finis Nusquam Tertius. A typical, peaceful agriworld of the Dust Realms, only concerned with meeting the supply needs of the sector, and holding back the Grimm incursions - both tasks made mostly manageable by the technology and assistance provided by the IVth Legion. Though not numerous, the Astartes and their Hunter and Army companions provided a solid bulwark against the Grimm infestation and the occasional pirate raid. The defenses, while far weaker than those of Remnant proper, were still adequate, the orbital stations and ground-based fortifications shielding the millions of inhabitants manned constantly, with the best sensory equipment, fire control, and weaponry that the Lord of Dust could provide with the assistance of his Mechanicum allies.

Against most foes, it would have been more than enough as a deterrent, or at least it would have slowed the invaders enough for a distress call to be sent, and for reinforcements to arrive.

Against the foe attacking the system now, they were wholly inadequate, mainly because the devastating surprise attack. True, there have been rumors about a major engagement fought between Imperial forces in the Isstvaan system (wherever that was), but there was no definitive information available, and they would have been remiss to act on rumors alone. Thus all defenders were on a higher alert status, especially after receiving the communication from Remnant that Warmaster Horus himself was visiting Lord Perturabo. 

Still, the translation of an Emperor’s Children battle barge was more surprising than alarming - and while all regular security protocols were followed, as befitting the heightened readiness level, the local governor still allowed the wounded Astartes ship into orbit, only sending out an astropathic message to Remnant while the ship maneuvered from the Mandeville point towards the planet, asking for further instructions. 

Mere hours after that, the IIIrd Legion vessel opened fire and blew away the orbital control station with a staggered salvo of torpedoes and lance strikes, before turning its bombardment cannons against the planetary defensive emplacements. With the trademark textbook perfection of the Emperor’s Children, the traitors managed to destroy most of the IVth Legion’s strongpoints on the world within hours. 

And then, it was finally time for the enjoyment. Drop pods and Thunderhawk gunships swarmed forth from the traitor vessel, depositing hundreds of Astartes on the battered planet - and under skies that turned dark with roiling clouds of insane colors, the Emperor’s debased Children conducted a symphony of suffering and cruelty, consigning tens of thousands of the planet’s inhabitants to their recently-adopted patron. The tides of hatred and fear gave birth to countless Grimm, who tore into both loyalist and traitor alike with animal savagery.

The surviving Astartes and Hunters rallied around Governor-General Amalric, a Terran by birth, who nevertheless managed to impress Perturabo sufficiently that he approved his retirement to the planetary governorship. Unfortunately, his forces were severely hampered by their own almost-instinctual need and training for protecting the civilians, and the governor’s calculating decisions to sacrifice parts of the population were met with stern disapproval and harsh words - the recriminations made even worse to those who made them by the knowledge that he was doing the right thing.

Still, they could be proud of themselves. On many other worlds, such an attack would have crumbled the population into panicked chaos, resulting in a quick victory and slaughter. The locals, however, were rather used to inhuman, very hard to kill beasts preying on them, and they all knew that every hour, every day they held out would bring the surely-coming reinforcements closer. The Lord of Dust would certainly notice the lack of regular transmissions, and investigate. So, the defenders fought a desperate, vicious guerilla war, trying to keep the civilians as safe as possible, and preserve their few communications and auspex channels that still remained spaceside.

They survived the first frantic hours of an Astartes drop pod assault, survived the first day of a Grimm invasion, then held on for another week.

Then a lone ship of the Fourth Legion translated in-system, and raced towards the planet. The euphoria of incoming reinforcements turned into dismay as the auspex returns placed the incoming vessel into strike cruiser tonnage. However, the dismay swiftly evaporated, as the vessel’s identifier was burst-transmitted to the planet.

The  _ Filia Ferrum _ . The personal vessel of their Primarch’s daughter.

++++++

Aboard the strike cruiser, Warsmith Kalkator readied his task force for rapid deployment. Though not a betting man, he did not like their odds. Not spaceside, of course - when it came to void warfare, there were precious few Legions and shipmasters who could present a challenge to their lady, even if she were commanding a regular strike cruiser. Aboard her own personal vessel? Kalkator snorted. The arrogant, murderous traitor bastards would never realize what hit them.

He went over the deployment plan and engagement patterns once again, checked the loadouts, triple-checked the status of the two Thallaxi cohorts onboard. The presence of those made him a bit more optimistic, but not by much. After all, he had about eighty Astartes, with maybe three times as many Hunters - and they would face at least four or five companies of Emperor’s Children, in addition to the surely swarming Grimm tides. No, the odds on the ground would be against them. Nevertheless, he knew that the presence of a single individual amongst them would act as an incalculable force multiplier.

He glanced towards her, noted the stiff way she held herself on the command throne, and despite her artificial origins, he could practically feel the waves of fury emanating from her. How could others imply that she was an unfeeling, cold machine, or hard to read, he never understood. Then again, he was a Warsmith, schooled in the Omnissiah’s teachings on Holy Mars itself - perhaps that affinity skewed his perceptions.

Still, if Warsmith Kalkator wanted to keep the oath Sergeant Kalkator made quietly to himself when the Legion met its Primarch, and instead of ridicule or harsh punishment, they found a prideful father, he’d have to ensure that she’d get through this whole skirmish in one piece - and for that, she needed to think clearly. He stepped to her side, looming over the slight, feminine form, before she looked up to him, green eyes colder than the void, a mask of fury on her face.

His lips peeled back in a ruthless, sharklike grin, as he saluted, his voice a deep growl of vox.

“We are not sons of Curze, milady - but we are here, and what’s more important, we are vengeance ready!”

Her snort of laughter, and the lightened atmosphere of the bridge is more than he hoped for.

++++++

The lumbering battle barge of the Emperor’s Children falls victim to the boundless arrogance so pervasive to that Legion - they underestimate the threat a single strike cruiser could present, they are confident that they have the Fourth Legion vessel outgunned and outranged. They have no idea about the modifications implemented in the Jovian shipyard by vassals of Fabricator Locum Kane himself; nor do they know that the main armament of the  _ Filia Ferrum  _ was designed by Perturabo himself, and that the generators and shields mounted on the ship would be powerful enough for battle barges. The prow of the strike cruiser shines with the fury of a chained sun, as the spinal lance fires and carves deep into the traitor vessel, the coherent beam of light punching through shields, armor, bulkheads alike. Explosions blossom in its wake, and the Emperor’s Children vessel shudders.

Electronic garbage floods the targeting systems of the battle barge, a tide of nonsensical data drowning their auspex units, preventing precision shots. Retargeting the armament for a saturation pattern takes precious time - and that is something they do not have. The  _ Filia Ferrum _ dances around her enemy, the lance strikes gouging long canyons into the traitor ship. The return fire is spotty, the few direct hits waste their energy on the shields and armor of the strike cruiser, as Penny conducts the deadly dance with ruthless mechanical precision, utilizing every lesson she learned from both her father and the shipmasters of the Khan.

The outcome is not in doubt, and after barely four hours, it is done. They leave the once-mighty battle barge an airless, cored hulk of burnt-out metal. The strike cruiser enters orbit, to refine the final deployment patterns and to coordinate with the governor. Only Kalkator is close enough to her to see how much it takes her to face the price of their plan. She is truly her father’s daughter - and for a moment, his hand alights on her shoulder in wordless support.

++++++

Down on the planet, Governor Amalric and his personal cadre of Hunters and Astartes struggle frantically against the traitor assault. The eye-searing wargear and disturbing, orgasmic shrieking aside, the bastards of the Third Legion do not seem to lack their old skills, even though their arrogance and pride will lead them ultimately to ruin - they would not, could not believe that the interception of the Governor’s location was a deliberate ploy. The traitors don’t care - they just want to revel in the slaughter, to claim worthy kills, to inflict new heights of suffering and ruin on their enemies. Amalric shakes his head, as his rifle barks once again, the shot glancing off the helmet of an enemy sergeant focusing too much on mutilating a wounded Hunter. The Astartes looks up, and the second shot shatters his helmet’s eye lens, and detonates inside, pulping his head. The governor allows himself a small smile, and limps to a new sniper nest.

The incoming, vengeful roar of engines makes him look up, and he would not stop the laughter even if he wanted to. The reinforcements are here.  _ She _ is here, in person. And she is furious like never before.

The lead Thunderhawk hovers for a moment over the battlefield, before a slim shape leaps out, the ground cratering around her feet as she lands, facing the oncoming charge of Emperor’s Children. Her arms are spread as in benediction, and from her backpack, a dozen slender swords deploy. A flash of murderous fury in her green eyes, then debris sprays from under her feet as she countercharges the traitors. A sweep of a dainty hand sends half dozen blades scything through the Astartes, the strikes finding the weak spots of armor unerringly, biting deep into joints and neck seals alike. Her other hand gestures, an abrupt circular motion, and the rest of her blades form a spinning shield before her, scattering, deflecting the volley of mass-reactive rounds targeted at her position. Penny wades in, eyes alight with righteous fury, her blades carving through transhuman flesh and warp-distorted, bloated muscle alike. She wastes maybe five seconds, twenty-eight exchanges on a skilled swordsman, before her leg sweep brings him to the ground, and she punches her fist through helmet, skull, and masonry alike.

Kalkator and his forces cover her from close and from the distance, shielding her sides and back with their own bodies if needed, and watching out for snipers and artillery. Arrogant bastards they may certainly be, but someone from the Third Legion still has a working, somewhat-sane brain, and the Warsmith receives targeting data from a gunship, and he suppresses curse as he blink-clicks to forward the image and data to Penny. 

The vast, boxy figure strides through the ruins, the power field around its immense fist lighting up with an eye-searing glow, the autocannon on its other hand cycling up to fire, as harsh, insane blurts of chaotic scrapcode howl from its vox. The Dreadnought looms over the defenders, its garish, insane colors clawing into the eyes and minds of onlookers. The slender woman stands tall before the towering machine, her spinning shield of blades deflecting the barrage of the autocannon, even as she is forced back by the impacts, her heels digging into the earth. She does all she can to keep the machine’s attention focused on herself, to endure until it makes a mistake, or an opportunity presents itself - after all, the ammo of the autocannon is not endless, she smiles to herself, running calculations.

The cycling of the ammo hoppers is swift, the pause in the incessant barrage is a second, at most - but for Penny, that is more than enough. Her blades pull back, hovering in front of her, forming a barrel as her eyes light up with fury and Dust, a blinding green flash of light lancing out from her cannon, shearing through the Dreadnought, bisecting the ancient machine.

The mech has not yet finished falling down, before Penny and Kalkator lead the charge. Within scant minutes, they break the traitor host’s back - and can then face the onslaught of Grimm.


	18. Snippets of Future Past 2

##  Storyteller 

+Excerpt from the recollections of Kasper Hawser, Skjald of Tra +

We always treasure stories that remind us on fear, on valor, on brotherhood. These all do serve to keep the traditions of the Vlka Fenryka alive, to keep us alive, and remind us on our duty towards the Allfather and His Imperium. And as the Skjald of Tra, it has been my honor and duty to record such sagas - and when needed, to recount them in rites of memory, in times of remembrance.

In those days, the Allfather still walked proud amongst his sons, the Great Crusade was still being waged across the stars, and the brotherhood of the Allfather’s sons seemed unshakeable. Sure, there were spats and feuds, as it is wont in any jarl’s family, and amongst all siblings - for that is what the Wolf King and his kin are, never mind their closeness to the Allfather or the eventual fate of so many of them.

Those were brighter, perhaps better times - a time of innocence, of certainty, when Mankind claimed back its birthright amongst the uncaring stars. It was then that these events played out, and were told me by the Jarl of Tra, Ogvai Ogvai Helmschrot.

_ The Lord of Artificers was sorely beset by the betrayal of a woman strong in maleficarum, who was kin to one close to the Artificer King’s heart - and that closeness blinded even one great as he to the treachery until it was too late. The Spring of Hope turned to a Mirage of Despair, as the Ever-watching eyes of a malevolent spirit glittered in cruel delight from the Underworld. _

_ The woman allied herself with the Grimm Queen of Remnant, and made war upon the Artificer, their clash fierce but indecisive, the powers lent by the evil spirit confounding the devices and vision of the Artificer, and allowing the fallen Maiden to flee and hide from his sight. The raging lord scoured the planet, laying waste to all dark spirits that sought to bar his way - yet the ultimate prey eluded him, shrouded in foul maleficarum. Understand this well - there was power which could confound a kin of the Wolf King, a being whose sight and mind was amongst the clearest of the Eighteen, and yet that same clear mind realized this. Perhaps if you remember anything about the Lord of Artificers, choose to keep that memory - he was aware of his own limitations, of the extent of his skills; and he was not too prideful to turn to his kin for assistance when he knew that his failings would endanger his people.  _

_ And the ones he called came. From the distant fringes, the far-ranging Lord of the Hunt returned to aid his brother, to lend his peerless tracking skills to his kin. The taciturn son of the steppes stood beside his city-building brother, as the two mighty sons of the Allfather waited for the third to arrive - and the Wolf King did not disappoint, did not decline the summons; after all, the Emperor’s Executioner had been called to hunt down and punish a traitor, who challenged a kinsman of his. _

_ The Lord of Artificers held a welcoming feast for his brothers and their retinues, and while the three of them discussed the upcoming hunt, the warriors of Russ, the Khan, Perturabo, and the Soulwielders of Remnant used the time to renew their bonds of friendship and brotherhood - though at times, those were forged in pain and defeat, just ask Jarl Hrafnkelsson. Still, here again the cunning mind of the Artificer was at work - while he did not foresee those dark days, he always knew that his sons and realm could not, should not stand alone. Thus, he made sure that there was respect and bonds of brotherhood between his people and those who owed fealty to his brothers. And it still works, those bonds are perhaps stronger than ever, forged even tighter by the betrayal of the Warmaster. _

_ The three brothers laid plans during the feast, and shared them only with those closest to them, and naturally, were met with fierce resistance. The Wolf King and the Warhawk could barely contain their mirth when they witnessed the Artificer weathering the blistering diatribe of his family, for going to battle without them - yet he persevered and convinced them to guard the hearth of his aett while he hunted for the traitorous Maiden. Perhaps he would have failed if not for the Khan’s insistence on a small, quick force instead of a campaign fought with entire companies of Astartes and Soulwielders.  _

_ As the Artificer brought his brothers and the ten chosen retainers who accompanied them to where he lost the maleficar the last time, the Khan took the lead, as was his right. The cunning deceptions, sorcerous veils, false trails and other such deceptions could not thwart the Lord of the Hunt, and he lead the small group unerringly, ever closing on the lair of the fallen Maiden and the ever-watching spirit of the Underworld. _

_ Aided by the Grimm Queen, the Mirage of Despair and the Ever-watcher sent hordes of foul beasts and spirits clad in flesh to devour the three brothers and their companions; a foolhardy attempt as these creatures met their end at the hands of Russ who cut a swathe through them with the blade of Mjalnar, just as he had sworn at the feast. _

_ Those attackers who managed to avoid the rage of the Wolf King were destroyed by the devices and weapons of the Artificer, or killed by the ten companions. Wave after wave of Grimm creatures hurled themselves at the hunting party, and all three brothers wore the same dark smile - they were closing on their prey, the Warhawk leading them unerringly to the lair of the maleficar. _

_ As expected, the befouled Maiden and the dark spirit that seduced her took refuge under a mountain, thus the hunters descended into the dark depths of Remnant, to end the threat of these traitors once and for all. _

_ Thirteen hunters descended, Skjald, three of them sons of the Allfather. Remember it when you recount that only six came back, and one of the survivors wore the mantle of Spring on her shoulders for but a scant day before she too fell. Those who were there do not speak of what exactly they saw in those depths, but the Artificer was never known for wanton destruction - yet he had ordered the whole mountain burned from orbit. And from how the planet writhed and screamed during the last hours of the hunt, how the sky rained lightning, blood, and colors without names, you can be sure that the spirit of the Underworld did not relinquish its hold easily. _

_ Yet the hunters did succeed, for there are still four Maidens guarding Remnant from the maleficarum, and the bonds of kinship between the sons of the three brothers are stronger than ever. Remember that, Skjald. _

* * *

 

##  Storyteller II - Wolf Bride

+Excerpt from the recollections of Kasper Hawser, Skjald of Tra +

My duty, my vocation among the Vlka Fenryka is to record and recount their memories and compose sagas as they entrust those nuggets of information to my keeping. Usually, they talk about the horrors encountered, of blood-freezing horror, insane valor and determination. Even then, there is always an undertone of brotherhood, of comradeship in those visions of the past - and not simply as an object lesson to those in the future. I have been entrusted with countless such memories, expected to be an impartial keeper of them all. Yet I am but a human, augmented though I may be by the Wolf Priests - thus, some sagas are more easily recalled due to being favored by my own mind. 

In those days, the Allfather still walked proud amongst his sons, the Great Crusade was still being waged across the stars, and the brotherhood of the Allfather’s sons seemed unshakeable. Perhaps the events I am about to tell you are one of the finest example of that close brotherhood, that deep love connecting the Eighteen in those days. Well, at least some of them, true - not even a son of Russ would accuse the Lord of the Red Sands with such feelings, for one. So once again, let me relate you a memory Ogvai Ogvai Helmschrot, Jarl of Tra committed to my keeping.

_ A single meeting, a single spar caused it all - and when all was said and done, noone had the heart to blame the Artificer, not even the Voice of Mars. Hjolda, why would that being blame him, seeing how close those two were; always seeking knowledge, always venturing to push the boundaries - yet always mindful and careful in their quest, all too aware of the dangers of maleficarum. That’s a different tale, and it does not belong to the Vlka Fenryka - if you are interested, ask the Soulwielders or the Voice of Mars, they can tell you more. _

_ The Wolf King was a guest at his brother’s hall, and that’s when he laid eyes on her for the first time - and his suspicion was aroused instantly. She acted oddly, stiffly, like a doll, pulled by strings from the Underworld - yet she seemed to think the Artificer and his closest companion were family to her. She spoke and acted like a daughter, and they indulged her, encouraged her. The Wolf King was torn between duty towards the Allfather and duty towards his brother and host. You can guess how that went, Skjald.  _

_ Russ called on his brother, demanded an explanation - and when given one, a test of arms against that creation of the Artificer. He said that in combat, he would find out if his brother was a deluded fool who allowed an abomination to deceive him. If not for the three women close to the Artificer’s heart, that challenge would have ended with the Artificer and the Wolf King at each other’s throat, locked in mortal combat. The women quelled the ice-cold rage of Remnant’s lord, while letting the Wolf King know what a grievous mistake he made. Russ, while moved, was not deterred - sorrow was and never would be a hindrance to him doing his duty. _

_ The doll then spoke, and accepted the duel with a cheerful smile warmer than the sun. And so it was that the Wolf Lord and the Daughter of Iron met in battle; and their spar was a beautiful and terrifying sight to witness. All present could see and feel the tension radiating from the Artificer as he watched his daughter facing off his brother, and not even he could always tell whether it was just a spar or a duel to the death - yet in the end, the Wolf King laughed long and loud, sheathing his blade, shaking his head at the folly of it all. _

_ Perhaps only the Artificer knows what the Daughter said to the Wolf, for she spoke softly, tiredly after the bout, and all were far enough away so that only a son of the Allfather could have heard them. Yet no-one could deny or fully believe what happened next, for the still-chuckling Russ ruffled her hair, and carried her back to her father. _

_ The fury of the Artificer was swiftly replaced by surprise when the Wolf Lord asked if he could tell how he came to such a Daughter. Surely, his brother could not mean to actually attempt duplicating the never-repeated feat of creation that came only rarely even to beings like the Artificer. _

_ Still, the Wolf King persisted, and his brother finally agreed to attempt it once more - but he would not do it alone. The spirits of the Underworld were fooled once when his Daughter came alive, he was not willing to risk them becoming wise and corrupting his gift to the Wolf King. Thus, the Artificer took counsel with the Crimson King, the Lord of Drakes, and the Gorgon - and together, they labored hard and long to give answer to the request of a brother, for no other reason than it felt right to them. None know what exactly the four brothers did, how they exactly went about their tasks, but the bygone centuries attest to their efforts and their success. _

_ When Russ answered their summons, they told the Wolf King to attend them in the deepest forge of the Artificer. What they did there exactly, is buried under the veil of secrecy - and perhaps for the better, given the wyrd of the Gorgon. Still, what is known that five brothers met in the dark depths, and when they re-emerged, a woman was standing by the Wolf King’s side. _

_ Hair the color of blood on the snow, eyes like the purest Fenrisian ice, she walked with purpose, her skin the shine and color of clouded, storm-birthing sky. Tall as the Wolf King, she carried herself with pride and her strides shook the ground where she walked, leaving deep prints in the crust of Remnant - and she blushed at that, for a short while. Quickly the Crimson King instructed her, and her steps lightened, no longer causing the world to tremble; or at least not from her weight alone. She was and still is, the proud, regal Valkyrie of Fenris, Skjald. She walks at our side when battling on the ground. She carries us when we cross the void in pursuit of our prey. She is Hrafnkel, given life and form by the Artificer and his brothers - and she is the Bride of the Wolf King. _

* * *

 

##  Queen of the castle 

The air is thick with greasy smoke that seems to taint and corrode all it touches. Screams of pain, howls of rage and fury, incessant thunder of guns play the orchestra of the damned over the tortured hellscape of the Throneworld as the traitor Champion of Chaos marshals his forces for another push against the walls of the Palace.

Distorted, corrupted hulks lumber into view as the Traitor Titans of the Legio Mortis unleash their unholy wrath against the reinforced walls of the greatest bastion of humanity. Within the vast complex, jury-rigged Ordinatii are hauled into position, the hasty work overseen by Kane and Zeth, the two leaders of the Mechanicum rerunning the calculations and deployment plans handed down from Dorn just for the sake of checking - they all know that the Primarch’s will is law when it comes to defending against his traitor kin.

The Astartes captain surveys his section of the wall, checking for faults, for men with wavering resolve, defenders in need of reassurance - not that he expects to find any, and is somewhat surprised at that realization. Of course, his Legion brothers are moulded by the vast determination of their father, but the humans have no such advantages. Perhaps on another day, in different circumstances, he’d think  about the implications, contrast the differences, but for now, he is content in knowing that his warriors will do their duty with exemplary focus and skill.

His eyes alight on a pair of old, familiar faces, and for a brief second nostalgia threatens to overwhelm him, pulling his lips into an involuntary smile that turns bittersweet when he takes in the greying hair and age-worn countenance of the two Hunters. The woman notices him, and flashes her a wide smile, still filled with the same bubbling cheer and enthusiasm that was so exasperating and tiring when she and her husband first came to his Legion as envoys from the Lord of Dust.

It was their misfortune that they were stuck here when the traitor forces arrived, but in a way, their presence was immensely helpful - especially in keeping up the morale of the Guard forces who seemed to respond well to her incessant banter, maniac laughter,  cheerfulness, and her interaction with her constantly-tired husband. And the captain knew full well why exactly that Hunter was so tired, and despite the treason and horrors unleashed by their warp-corrupted cousins, he was glad of the slim Hunter’s skills. Age may have sapped his physical agility and capabilities, but when it came to employing warpcraft, he showed with harsh clarity why someone with his experience was not to be underestimated, even though his abilities were never flashy or overt.

A change in the pitch of the ever-present roar of gunfire makes the Astartes turn once again towards the massing heretics below, his eyes and armor sensors tracking, instincts screaming of danger. He stiffens as he realizes the Imperator and its two escorting Warlords have ceased firing, but their volcano cannons are spinning up, the barrels glowing with a hellish light of unreality. Before the captain can issue a warning across the vox, the incandescent beams of light reach out towards the Palace walls with the scream of damned, the impacts a thunderous concussion of noise, light and heat; followed by the sound of tortured, groaning masonry giving way.

For a brief heartbeat, there is silence over the battlefield, then with a sound akin to the enraged sea, the traitors charge the breach on the wall. The assault is led by a company of black-armored Morlocks, the corrupted Astartes swollen with unnatural powers and the essence of the warp. Lasfire and bolter shells aimed at them barely slow down the incoming tide of darkness and the Iron Hands reach the broken remnants of the battlements.

A thin line of Astartes in bloodied, broken yellow armor stops them for a moment, then another. The sons of Dorn fight with dogged, fanatical determination, the traitors practically have to carve them to pieces to get past them. He will not give the bastards the chance. A towering giant wades into the Imperial Fists, its armor bleeding black, writhing shadows, sucking in the light itself, the lightning claws on its oversized gauntlet punching through a legionary, its other hand tearing off the helmeted head from another defender. The giant champion laughs, its mere voice sapping the will to fight from the humans around, before a short, guttural, phlegm-laced command from him worms its way into the delicate systems of the power armors the Fists wear, shutting down or overloading sensors, servos, trapping the defenders in their own shells.

The Imperial Fist captain grimaces as he races towards them, knowing that he is too far to save his brothers from the Chaos champion. His eyes narrow as two small figures throw themselves against the towering monster of genhanced flesh, corrupted power and tank-grade armor. Time seems to slow down, or he is becoming faster, as he races to prevent the noble but inevitable end of his brothers and friends.

thump

He sees it with crystal clarity, despite the polluted, hazy air, the furious melee. The slender Hunter’s twin bolt pistols are fired practically point-blank, the shots hitting with uncanny accuracy, finding the minuscule fault lines, hairline cracks over the artificer armor. Corrupted ceramite spatters from the points of impact, the impenetrable Terminator armor weakening - then the Huntress opts for simply swinging her hammer against the created weak point with all her not-inconsiderable might.

A Morlock seeks to bar the captain’s way, its axe a blurring arc of crackling teeth. He does not even look as he sways aside, his sword punching through helm and skull alike before ripping away half of the traitor’s head as he runs onwards.

thump

The hammer hits with a thunderous detonation, the blow enough to liquify or at least cripple even armored Astartes. Were it a normal, sane Terminator, it would be damaged, forced back, a dangerous but ultimately killable foe for the two Hunters. Not this one. The corrupted gifts for which the once-noble Astartes traded its soul allow it to survive and hit back, darkness dribbling in whispering, coiling streams from the point of impact and the deep rents spiderwebbing across the warplate, the dented, torn armor reforming with stately grace as iron fangs grin from a leering skull.

Another traitor, a bolter in his hand. His shots dent and splinter his pauldron and greaves, then he barges into the Iron Hand, his first slash severing the bastard’s hands, the second decapitating it.

thump

The lightning claws lash out with eye-searing speed only to be intercepted by twin bladed bolt pistols as the elder Hunter deflects the killing blow, pitting precision against brute strength. It is almost enough. One claw grazes the Huntress, electricity arcing over her form, blood spraying from the cut to be swallowed by the greedy coils of darkness wafting from the Iron Hands. A flicker of pain over her features immediately transforms into a mask of fury, as power explodes around her and she lifts her weapon anew.

thump

The Huntress’ weapon transforms into a cannon whose shot launches her into the air, wreaths of blue-black Dust energy swirling over the transforming head of her hammer as she lifts it high to smite the Iron Hands champion, while her partner ducks under the claws of the Astartes, the edges of his weapons shining with baleful light as he spins to hamstring the giant.

The third traitor, brandishing a power sword with some skill, scoring a hit on his chestplate, leaving a furrow in the ceramite. The captain’s riposte finds the traitor’s neck seals, punches through to erupt in a welter of blood, bone fragments and brain matter from the back of the Iron Hand’s skull. 

thump

The coils of darkness lash out as a foul laughter reverberates from that demented skull-helm, as the warp-granted power of the Iron Hands grabs for the two humans who seek to bar its way. The slender man screams something, hoarfrost erupting around them, burning away some tendrils - but not all of them, as the shadows grab hold of him and his wife. The Iron Hands laughs in sinister glee, as with an almost casual motion, it punches its lightning claws through the chest and body of the old Hunter. His wife screams, the sound raw agony and pure fury in equal measure.

thump

The Astartes captain curses, he is still too far and there is no ranged weapon in reach. He is forcing his genhanced body to even greater speed. He needs to reach them. He must stand beside them. He cannot allow them to die. It was not long ago they first met, and despite the initial difficulties, those two were welcomed amongst the Sons of Dorn. Perhaps because while they were outwardly so different, they still shared the same dogged determination. He can see the outcome already, but refuses to accept it. He is an Astartes of the Seventh Legion. He will not give up. Ever.

The fourth traitor, this one with a revving chain axe. The captain’s sword shears away the head of the axe, the backswing opening the traitor from hip to shoulder.

thump

Her rage-fuelled strikes force the corrupted Terminator back a step, then another, as she pours all her grief and soul into her blows. The captain sees the blow coming in slow motion, sees her hammer smash against the lightning claws, sees her strength and soul hold out against warp-enhanced Astartes muscles supported by the corrupted machine spirit of the Terminator armor. For a brief moment, he hopes that she can survive until he gets there.

thump

The claws crack, then shatter, coruscating energy bathing the two combatants in stark relief. The Huntress is unbalanced for a brief moment, and her opponent rams the broken remains of its lightning claws straight into her chest, crushing bones, pulping organs. She slumps down, a broken shell. The Iron Hands champion howls a triumphant laughter. 

thump

Sigismund, First Captain of the Imperial Fists finally reaches the corrupted form of the creature who was once Gabriel Santar, equerry of Ferrus Manus. Even though others deride him for being a hot-blooded berserker almost on par with Angron’s Legion, Sigismund feels a strange calm settle over him as his eyes drift over the lifeless forms of his brothers, of Nora, of Ren. Sword meets half-broken set of claws a dozen times, righteous fury and vengeance struggle against warp-fuelled bloodlust and dark triumph. 

thump

The darkness of the traitor comes alive with light, the whirling dance of blood-flecked yellow and warp-drenched darkness stops. For a moment, all is still, then a head encased in daemonically-grinning skull helm rolls to the ground, the immense body following moments later. And then Sigismund’s fury turns against the other Morlocks.

* * *

 

##  Maiden, Fall 

She had known this was coming. For roughly a century, she was aware of the potential for events to unfold the way they did. She still remembered that occasion of delving into the paths of the future, helped along by a coven of psykers led by Ahzek and Yesugei. She remembered well the horrors they had seen, the inevitable doom encroaching on her world and family - and the faint, whispery thread of minuscule hope that nevertheless carried an immense, mind-breaking price. Ever since then, she did her level best to steer events in the direction of attaining that small bit of victory. It was never easy, as she could never tell her own family about the days of blood to come, about the sacrifices that had to be done in the name of a barely-there victory. No, she had to keep the knowledge from them, so they could all enjoy those short years of relative peace and closeness. Or, as she often pointed out to herself, she was simply deathly afraid of losing them, of how they would react, of how  _ he  _ would take the foretelling.

With an almost absent-minded gesture, Cinder sent a wave of flames at the incoming Grimm, the beasts howling as the firestorm engulfed them, turning the vicious creatures into greasy smoke and ashes in heartbeats. The Fall Maiden looked around once again, her small team of Astartes and Hunters killing off whatever opposition eluded her flames. She felt apprehensive as she consulted her scroll once again, checking the global status updates, her face morphing into a mask of fierce hatred. Despite the century she spent preparing for these days, these events, she still could not distance herself enough to think with full, dispassionate clarity so praised by Ahzek. She was paying the price for her silence, for those brief occasions of carefree happiness, of the family she became a part of. 

And even though she prepared for it all, she could not suppress the fury when her scroll notified her of the attack on Beacon Academy - and the inevitable fall. A part of her felt grudging respect towards their enemies, for the way they moved behind the scenes, spending years and decades moving pieces into place for a single, overwhelming strike. Then again, this ability to plan and manipulate Fate itself was why she decided on her course so long ago. Enemies like this had to be eradicated completely for Mankind to stand a chance at survival. Still, the cost was much, much harder to bear than even her worst nightmares depicted - after all, a century ago she did not believe that her life and happiness could last like this.

A last incoming message pinged on her scroll, and Cinder Fall’s eyes went wide as she read the short note, tears clouding the edges of her vision.

Power erupted from her in coruscating waves, butterfly wings of flame lit up her eyes as she rose into the air, and with a cry of fury, loss, and hatred, she sped towards the mountains.

It was time for the reckoning.

++++++

The tapestry is becoming clearer, more and more pure before the Watcher’s eyes, the scintillating colors and aetheric music of the spheres weaving a complex pattern only beings comparable to the Watcher can begin to comprehend. The skeins of Fate that have been carefully spun for decades, centuries are finally shaping into the trap that would see another son of the Anathema fall; thus providing a useful pawn in the Great Game, to replace the Crimson King - though to be sure, that one would also serve, in the fullness of time, and its unwilling servitude will be all the more delicious.

Visions of distant places and beings flit before the Watcher’s sight. A freckle-faced teenage boy struggling against a horde of Grimm, his cane weaving a curtain of death around him, his praetorians on the cusp of being buried under a tide of orange-flecked darkness and hate. A statuesque woman struggling to escape from under the ruins of an ancient temple, her power slowly, carefully moving aside masonry and debris - seemingly unaware of the garish creatures awaiting her on the outside. A white-haired woman clutching her throat, as the poison takes effect, her eyes flashing with fury as the man across her smirks, their features so similar yet utterly different. A Grimm Queen taking revenge at last, her blade slicing across her hated rival’s visage, before the scene dissolves into flames. The light fading in the green eyes of a ginger-haired doll, as . The ignorant godling of cold, arrogant intellect, his face twisting in laughable grief, his weakness all too apparent. A raven-maned woman, her fury clouding her eyes with burning power, rapidly closing.

The depths of the cavern echoed the cruel, triumphant laughter of the Everwatcher as the skies above roiled with nameless, unsane colors, and waves of power gave birth to Grimm and daemon alike, as reality itself cracked and bled as the Lord of Change gathered his power, to once again confront a Maiden, and to repeat the task thought impossible, and to turn another of Remnant’s protectors.

++++++

The slim, feminine figure clad in dark clothes and awash in her power hovers over the revealed cathedral composed of undulating, roaring Grimm, nameless, scintillating colors, and tortured, rapturous humans. With an echoing cry of boundless rage, that power is unleashed, tendrils of fiery power burrowing into the unnatural edifice, burning away the taint from the surface of Remnant. The walls tremble as the Watcher within laughs a vulture’s cackle, and the boundaries of realspace crack and bleed daemons and distorted Grimm, the newborn horde intent on burying the Fall Maiden beneath sheer numbers, while the web of Fate warps and distorts to a narrowing tunnel, the possibilities dwindling and drawn closer to the desired results by the talons of the Everwatcher. 

The clash of power between the Maiden and the Lord of Change tears apart sky, earth, Grimm, daemon, human and Astartes alike. Neither of them care for outsiders, only the need to best the other exists. Clouds roil and lightning paints the vista with unsane colors, the crust of the planet buckling and howling in torment as the fires from deep within are called to serve. Tremors and writhing waves of magma smash the impossible spires of the cathedral to the ground, devouring the warp-born monstrosity with the heat of an enraged planet. The Everwatcher cries out, its power twisting causality and reason alike, trying to remake Fate according to its design. 

Cinder laughs, as she can feel the gossamer web taking shape. Blood trickling from her eyes and mouth, the price of her power unleashed, she begins to chant a name, a string of soul-burning syllables never meant for human throats. Each utterance infused with power, Sarthorael is distracted for a brief second, unable to comprehend why the insane Maiden is drawing him further closer, giving him more power and more foothold with each heartbeat. A triumphant cawing of dark amusement sounds from his throat at her apparently buckled sanity, before he spots the satisfied smirk on her face, and he realizes the peril he actually faces just that moment too late.

Burning power races along the threads of Fate the Everwatcher drew close to himself and the Maiden, intent on shaping and distorting her future to his own whims. The flames burn away his own essence and power, and the Lord of Change howls in fury and fear, as it faces a burning oblivion, the fires of the Fall Maiden’s fury burning away even his greater self, thought safe in the Immaterium. He tries to slip away from the planet, flee back to the depths of the warp, but the accursed woman sets the aethereal tunnel in fire around him - despite the cost to herself. The insane Maiden does not care that her own body and soul are burning away to nothing under the immense power she is channeling. Cinder hangs on with a will of iron, as the planet and the immaterium tremble around them, flames engulfing the struggling woman alongside the Lord of Change. 

For a brief second, she is tempted to stop, to only burn away his corporeal self, to simply banish him once more, even if it would be for a much longer time than on the last occasion. Images, friends, family flash before her eyes, and her resolve returns, as she sends a last goodbye towards them. The Fall Maiden cries out, power flaring in her voice, drowning out the inhuman cadence of Sarthorael.

It all ends with a drawn-out, tortured roar from deep within Remnant’s crust itself, as the obsidian peak rises slowly, majestically, magma flowing in rivers from the crown of the newborn volcano, erasing all traces of an unholy Cathedral, an ever-watching daemon, and a raven-maned Maiden.

++++++

On a distant, nameless world, a crimson-clad Astartes stops for a brief moment, the face of a mortal student, confidant, friend flashing before his mind’s eye, and he can feel the guilt and fury weighing down his soul - despite all, Ahzek Ahriman will blame himself for quite a long while. 

++++++

Deep in the void, aboard the  _ Swordstorm _ , Targutai Yesugei feels a cold wind, as if a comforting bonfire went out. With sadness in his eyes, he retreats to his chamber, the words of a steppe funeral dirge on his lips, as he bids farewell to a favored student.

++++++

Aboard the  _ Iron Blood _ , deep within the roiling Immaterium, Perturabo feels a part of his soul burning, dissolving into ashes, a soft, sad, muted laughter echoing distantly in his ears despite the Geller Field. For a few eternal seconds, he cannot grasp the meaning - then it hits him, and he closes his eyes for a heartbeat. When he opens them again, his chambers flare with icy blue flames of power, as the walls tremble from his wrath and grief unleashed.

The Navigator guiding the Dust Warrior flagship through the storms plaguing the Immaterium cries out in horrified wonder as a narrow path of icy blue flames rages into visibility, burning away the tides of Immaterium seeking to tear them apart, and charting a straight course towards their aim - and without fail, he steers the fleet towards the home planet of the Primarch.


	19. Trader

True, she was never much to look at - an ugly, boxy behemoth of crude power and seemingly boundless storage vaults, and she even lacked the deadly aura her Navy peers projected. Still, she had been in service for decades, devoted to the important but oft-overlooked part of the Imperium’s working; that is, interstellar commerce. She held the distinction to becoming the flagship of a Rogue Trader, who then had the old vessel upgraded and customized to exacting specifications, while keeping her old outline and looks intact. After all, the Rogue Trader figured that it would be much better to appear comparatively harmless and defenseless. The retrofitted ship served proudly once more, her sturdy construction, ancient spirit enduring for decades again, seeing the chaos and madness of the Heresy, the frantic campaigns of the reconstruction. She was considered as lucky as her crew was talented - several times, she managed to elude or destroy overconfident predators of all shapes, sizes, and races. But all things eventually came to an end, and so did she.

The Rogue Trader’s flagship did not give up easily, however, as the two wrecked corpses of sleek, serpentine raider crafts could attest to it, not to mention the three limping, wounded ones trying to overtake the flagship of their flotilla, who alone managed to get through the engagement with just a few scratches thanks to its captain’s skilled maneuvering, all the while ensuring almost single-handedly that the Imperial vessel became a burned, atmosphere-venting, limping wreck, without warp drives, weapons, guidance, or much of anything. Now, only the best sport remained - boarding and hunting down the mon’keigh who dared to defy the will of Comorragh.

Of course, humans being stubborn and tenacious (or simply too stupid), they did not simply kneel in servitude, or offer their lives meekly to the whims of their betters. All knew the dire fate that would fall on all who fell to the Dark Eldar - thus, the crew of the Rogue Trader fought desperately, using every advantage they had, from numbers to their knowledge of the many secrets of the old ship. For a few brief minutes, they even stopped the incoming boarders thanks to the effort of a dozen Hunters, before the Captain of the Raiders arrived, an avatar of death at his side.

Screams and moans filled the dark corridors of the ship as the Corsairs hunted down those too slow to run or too unskilled to fight back; their sharp weapons dealing exquisite agony to anyone they met, drinking in the intoxicating pain and suffering enhanced by the wonderfully bright souls several of the mon’keigh on board possessed - almost invariably those who did put up a fierce fight. Yr’arenn, Succubus of Comorragh was overjoyed at the skill these so-called Hunters showed, they made wonderful sport; she would definitely have to thank the Corsair Captain later on. But first, she had to find more of these humans, the taste and light of their soul more alluring and heady than even most drugs of her home city - and she was sure they would be excellent in fending off the attention of She-Who-Thirsts. As her blades and hair tore a map of bloody, exquisite suffering into the skin of her last prey, she allowed herself a glorious, unfettered laughter - and in hearing distance, even hardened Corsairs flinched as the tinkling, seductive peals of deadly soundwaves reached their ears. Those humans still conscious to hear them were mostly driven over the edge into madness at the sheer wrongness of the emotional barrage that was the unleashed joy and merriment of a Succubus.

The bridge of the ancient bulk hauler was a ruined, scorched, blood-drenched hellscape, a fitting stage for the final duel between two splendid examples of skill and fashion, as the human and Dark Eldar danced to the deadly beat of a Dust-alloyed cane clashing against a pair of slender Comorragh blades, the survivors of the bridge crew desperately trying to fend off the Corsairs.

The Rogue Trader’s pristine white clothes were stained with soot, blood, and smears, and there were an increasing number of small, thin cuts and holes in it, as the rapiers found their mark, despite the spirited defence of the human. The Captain flashed him a smile as deadly and sharp as his blades, the Dark Eldar’s eyes seeming to devour the red-haired human with ancient, malevolent hunger, while he dodged the cane strikes and shots with serpentine grace and speed, his own clothes impeccably clean and neat, despite the blood darkening his blades.

The smile of the Corsair becomes more and more genuine, as the Rogue Trader manages to keep up with him, the rest of the bridge no longer even existing for the pair as they weave and whirl through the motions they both know so well. Extravagant flourishes, grandiose, theatrical feints slowly lapse into cold, calculated, deadly focus, as the two dispense with the frills, and truly bring out all their skills to best the other. They do not notice the Corsairs butchering a few of the remaining crew, and taking down those too wounded to fight to the death. They don’t notice the cold creeping in, or how their breath plumes. They only break apart when a shudder runs through the ancient ship, a herald of a distant explosion. For a fraction of a second, both are out of balance, wide open to an attack.

The Corsair is, naturally, faster. A slender blade lashes out unerringly towards the eye of the red-haired human. The lunge hits, and the Rogue Trader breaks apart like a glass statue.

A voice comes from further to the side, where vapors curl around two humans, speaking over the unmistakable noise of an activating teleport homer, as emerald light seeps into the ruined bridge.

“You will always remember today as the day you almost killed Roman Torchwick.”

A bright, emerald flash, and they are gone - and the Corsairs cannot understand why their Captain is laughing so hard with a wide grin on his face.


	20. Shipping concerns

The more she thinks about this assignment, the more confused and irritated Weiss gets. It simply makes no sense to her, at all - there are people vastly more suited to inspecting and assessing new starships, and she herself has numerous duties planetside. The SDC does not run itself, after all. Still, it isn’t as if she could (or would, honestly) refuse a request from the Primarch’s office. She is sure that there is a very good reason behind Perturabo’s decision. She just needs to puzzle it out - and that is probably just one of the reasons why he selected her. It’s not like he made a secret about grooming her (and, to be honest, several more people) for high positions in the labyrinthine Imperial hierarchy. She is very much aware that the nascent fiefdom of the Primarch needs capable administrators, and while Astartes are supposed to excel in everything, the Fourth Legion is not yet suited to these civilian tasks. Soon, though; in a few years, in all likelihood, a decade or two on the outside. She figures that is one reason Perturabo sent her to Ultramar.

She frowns, glaring at her reflection in the Thunderhawk’s window. She cannot afford to let pride and vanity blind her to the importance and severity of the task at hand - she is treading on unfamiliar ground, and she is well aware that the Primarch knows she has only very rudimentary knowledge, all theoretical, on how exactly starships function (sure, she travels extensively, but that’s not in the same league as building or piloting one; even if she can pilot a Thunderhawk, if needed). No matter. The glare morphs into a fond smile, her eyes flickering towards the passenger compartment. After all, she does have her team with her, and they, especially Ruby, definitely will assist her in completing the task to the Primarch’s satisfaction.

At Weiss’ request, the pilot makes a slow tour over the hull of the huge starship, and the Huntress tries to evaluate armor strength, number and type of weapon emplacements, size of engines - no matter how implausible or impractical-seeming, she wants to absorb as much data, as many impressions as possible. She knows that Ruby will call her attention to any truly outstanding features - and of course she herself is quickly becoming aware that at least this is not a warship she has to evaluate. Well, in that case, it makes more sense to send someone like her, she muses. After dealing with the SDC and her ambassadorial duties for so long, she does have some ideas about how large-scale interstellar trade works within the Imperium. Thus, a facet of the puzzle is solved, and she flashes a satisfied smile.

The ship is massive, sleek, the design philosophy and external aesthetics tug at her memories but she cannot place where she had seen similar ships. The name of the vessel offers no help at all - and neither does Ruby, whom Weiss can hear suppressing a snicker when the ship’s name is revealed to them. The white-haired huntress frowns at that, but try as she might, she has no idea why  _ Regina Glacies _ would make Ruby react like that. After all, Weiss is well aware that Ruby’s knowledge and expertise of Imperial Gothic (particularly High Gothic) is second only to her own. No matter, she decides - it’s not like she can’t make her team leader talk later, in a more private setting.

The Thunderhawk docks within the vast hangar deck of the freighter, and the disembarking Huntresses are met with an honor guard of Navy personnel. Their livery and accents deviate just a bit from the Imperial standards, indicative of their homeworld, and Weiss frowns again, that nagging feeling of familiarity raising its head again. She should know this accent. She should know these minor changes in uniforms. Her memory is as close to perfect as possible for a human - yet even so, recalling something this small and specific from the vast depths of those memories is a nontrivial task. And it’s not like this particular information would be a matter of life and death.

The four Huntresses share a look, communicating like only long-time comrades can do, and then Weiss directs their entourage towards the enginarium. During the long trek, she pays close attention to the state of both encountered personnel and the corridors themselves, and she is satisfied with both. And no, not just because the color scheme is predominantly blue and white, with the occasional grey thrown in. Ruby’s snicker when Weiss points out how it reminds her of home is fully unwarranted, and the white-haired Huntress makes a mental note to avenge the slight later.

Still, the important thing is that the enginarium is impressive enough to earn even Ruby’s approval - even if the efficiency and performance is half of what the Magos claimed, it still is abundantly clear that the sublight and warp engines are on par with those of a grand cruiser. Weiss considers that very good - after all, if the constructors managed this feat, the rest of the ship systems have to be at least up to this standard. Another point in the crew’s favor is the machinelike precision and speed with which they perform their tasks, without the need for resorting to electrowhip-wielding gang masters. Sure, some people needed just that, but even the sometimes overly result-oriented Weiss finds that approach rather counterproductive in the long run. Not to mention grossly inefficient.

The tour takes them hours, but it is a necessary task, and honestly, Weiss can tell that in their own way, all four of them enjoy it. Sure, Blake mostly walks with a distant, cold expression on her face, but she knows the faunus, and can spot the minuscule tells in her behavior. Blake definitely approves of the layout of the ship’s interior, the attitude towards the simple crewmen - and Weiss knows well enough that the other would notice if it was a performance just for their benefit. Yang visibly brightens when they inspect the recreational facilities; which, for some strange reason, seem to have been built with aura-users (or dare Weiss think it, Astartes) in mind. Curious. 

And Ruby is distractingly enjoying herself - something Weiss has not expected, since they are not on a warship, there is comparatively little that would send her team leader into this giddy state. Sure, her reaction to the enginarium is not a surprise, but the silver-eyed Huntress can barely stop herself from bouncing and grinning (smirking smugly, really) all over the place as the foursome travels the vast, labyrinthine interior of the immense freighter along with their escort. Weiss does make a number of mental notes about Ruby’s reactions to certain pieces of tech - it will be useful later on, when it comes to presents and anniversaries.

They finally arrive to the bridge, and when the four Huntresses step through the blast door, Weiss’ mind kicks into overdrive, her gaze sweeping across the vista before her, taking in all details. For a normal human, or even for most Hunters, there is barely anything that would help in distinguishing Astartes clad in power armor. Weiss is not like most Hunters in that regard. Especially since she is familiar with the Legion these warriors belong to. She knows them, and things start making a disturbing amount of sense for her. 

Slowly, menacingly, she turns her head from the Astartes standing at attention, and  _ glares  _ at her team leader and closest  _ friend _ . Ruby is wise enough to smother any grin she would normally sport, but Weiss can see the sparks of merriment in those silver eyes. She suppresses the urge to kill the other woman - if for no other reason than the fact that Yang would not let her. 

Her distraction is minuscule, barely a few heartbeats - yet it is enough. She spots the armored behemoth too late, her eyes widen in recognition, before an armored hand reaches down, and ruffles her hair, the voice of Legionary Pullo (Sergeant Pullo, a distant part of her brain corrects) barks a vox-distorted laughter at her indignant shriek, before the Astartes takes off his helmet. She decides with great difficulty that she will not stab him. That would make things between the two Legions awkward. And sadly, her glare’s effects are much diminished thanks to the blush on her cheeks and the snickering of her teammates.

Before she could regain her bearings and give the Ultramarine a proper tongue-lashing for the inappropriate behavior, a giant shape looms from the shadowed recesses of the bridge, and Weiss’ face pales even further as the grinning Perturabo steps forward. Mortified, her words stumble in her throat, yet she knows, feels that the amusement that permeates the bridge of the starship is filled with fondness. Still, her cheeks burn all that brighter, before her whole being goes rigid and pale, as a hololithic apparition manifests. 

She knows that man. In fairness, so do countless people of the Imperium, but not like Weiss does. After all, she did spend numerous occasions in the man’s company, talking and listening, and ignoring Ruby’s snickering as Weiss swallows and takes in the noble, patrician features of the Thirteenth Primarch, scarcely able to distinguish the words of the recording, nevermind understanding what Guilliman’s cultured, precise baritone says. The cadence of the speech lulls her senses, and she knows that she’ll have to rewatch the whole message at a later point to be able to fully process it, but it seems she has to do something first, going by the fact that a trio of Ultramarines stand before her, with Pullo in the lead, and uncle Perturabo at his side, and he’s holding something in his hand that her mind can’t recognize for an instant - then her eyes go wide, and Weiss sways, only staying on her feet thanks to Ruby’s support.

The artifact in the Primarch’s hand is such a simple, archaic thing - just a parchment with a few dozen written lines and two seals at the bottom. Yet Weiss is more knowledgeable than the average Imperial citizen, especially when it comes to trade-related issues. And that little parchment in Perturabo’s hands, covered in very familiar, precise writing, is about the highest honor and achievement someone in Imperial trade can aspire to. She knows full well just what those two little blood-red seals contain, and a distant part of her mind can even recognize the sigils of the two Primarchs involved. What she has trouble accepting is that her name features prominently on the parchment. It’s for her. Not her father. Not Winter. Not Whitley. For her. It’s something she never dreamed of when she talked occasionally with both of them about her plans for the necessary expansion of the SDC.

She somehow manages to muster the energy necessary to accept the enormous gift and responsibility, the immense trust and goodwill emplaced on her by the two Primarchs she had the fortune to meet and work with. She will live up to their trust, repay them and the Imperium for their faith in her - and so will her descendants. She will make sure of that, as she builds up Schnee Transstellar into an organization that will make both her uncle and Primarch Guilliman ( _ Roboute _ , a traitorous part of her mind whispers) proud. 

As usual, it’s Ruby who manages to bring her back to her senses.

“So Weiss, should I be jealous?”

The freshly-invested Rogue Trader’s face burns. Weiss will not care for the other’s family connections. She will not care who is present. She will not care about any feelings whatsoever. She is going to  _ murder  _ Ruby.


	21. Dress code

Weiss tried to analyze her current situation as dispassionately as possible - after all, thanks to her upbringing and family connections, evenings like this were all too frequent. Even with her quite excellent memory, she could not specify the exact number of similar social occasions she attended - so why was she feeling so unbalanced now, about this particular time?

As always, she ensured that her own exterior presented the proper picture for the gala they would be attending tonight. Her clothes were, as usual, impeccable both in quality and style - fit for the high society ballroom, yet providing just enough flexibility to and movement that she would not be hampered much in the highly improbable case of a physical altercation. Sure, she did not expect anything of the kind, but her family had a point about constant vigilance and just a bit of useful paranoia. Though she still considered Winter’s suggestions rather … extreme and unlikely to be necessary. Especially when she considered the exquisitely crafted bracelet she wore. Her fingers caressed the cool metal, tracing the intricate webwork of circuitry, again wondering at the level of workmanship required to craft something like it - and, as so often on similar occasions, she had to exert rather more effort than usual to keep her face neutral and posture proper. Unfortunately, as usual, she could feel the shadow of a smile on her lips, and her cheeks felt slightly hotter than the room’s temperature would have warranted.

Her eyes narrowed as she realized that, her glare focusing on Ruby, who was chatting obliviously with their uncle, instead of erupting into flames, no matter how much Weiss wished for the latter. Not that she seriously wanted that, but still. Ruby should have had the decency to at least fidget under her glare, never mind that she did not seem to notice Weiss’ attention - and the white-haired girl huffed. Her companion really should have better situational awareness - just because she was behind Ruby, for her to ignore Weiss’ glare was just rude. Especially considering Ruby’s reaction when Weiss arrived - and again, the white-haired girl fought to control the traitorous reactions of her body, her glare boring into Ruby’s back. And no, her gaze did not linger on how the dress clung to the other girl’s curves. 

Or, well, if her eyes lingered, it was only to evaluate the quality of the younger Huntress’ attire - and no, just because Weiss herself had it commissioned did not necessarily mean it was good enough...though why would she think that? Of course it was a perfect fit for Ruby, the red and black coloring, along with the rose motifs just what the other girl liked, the cut and length comfortable enough to not impede Ruby’s movements, the Dust embroidered into the silky material would make for either a great sight or a handy distraction in case of a fight. The dress really did fit Ruby quite comfortably, and was snug at just the right places, and who turned up the heat, Weiss wondered for a moment.

A badly-suppressed basso chuckle snaps her to attention, and her eyes widen in surprise and something else, before they narrow to a laser-like glare - first at her uncle, then at Ruby, who had the temerity to join the giant’s mirth. The younger Huntress’ grin broadened as Weiss’ cheeks burned, before Ruby squeaked and took cover behind Perturabo from the white-haired girl’s laser-like glare. The Atlasian girl huffed and turned to the side, arms crossed in a dignified and not at all petulant manner. 

The tattered remains of Weiss’ dignity were saved when the trio heard movement from the top of the stairs, and Penny descended, apparently finished with her own preparations. Though what kind of preparations she had to do baffled Weiss - it’s not like the girl’s body couldn’t shift to simulate any required article of clothing. With a critical eye, she took in Penny’s appearance, assessing her looks and the quality of the dress she apparently decided to wear. It seemed someone had assisted her in Penny’s neverending quest to improve her ability to mimic and blend in with humans - and whoever did it, the person certainly had a very good eye for fashion. With a sharp, slight nod, Weiss deemed Penny’s appearance satisfactory - not that she had any doubts about that, the redhead would never embarrass her father or her friends on such occasions with a minor faux pas like incorrect clothing selection. A part of her mind noted that Ruby did seem awfully focused on Penny, almost to the same degree she focused earlier on Weiss herself.

“Father, Weiss” Penny’s voice was the usual cheerful tone, before it dipped into a somewhat huskier register at the last name, and she beamed at the young Huntress “Ruby. I’m dating ready.”

For a moment, there was silence.

Ruby’s cheeks burned.

Perturabo choked on air.

Weiss desperately chanted in her mind, praying that she did not utter a word aloud.  _ Must not kill her. Must not kill her. Must not kill her. Must not kill Ruby either. _

The temperature dropped noticeably, Ice Dust tracing faint whorls and patterns from Weiss’ still-sheathed blade.

Penny just smiled, as she stepped closer, and linked arms with both Ruby and Weiss.


	22. Tarnished Silver

Times like this, the Imperium’s sheer size worked against them, often with fatal results or worse. Sure, their team had gotten prognostications and intelligence on possibly tainted doomsday cults, but they needed time to narrow down the system - and that was not even counting the traveling time, against the tides of the Immaterium intent on drowning, or at least delaying them. And thanks to the whole realm still reeling from the aftereffects of the siege, the mind-crushing betrayals of first Horus then Ferrus, there were not enough forces available to a potential fool’s errand. Thus, the strike cruiser carried barely two squads of Astartes, accompanied by three Hunter teams, as well as the retinue of Inquisitor Vasilisa, along with a Guard regiment. Sadly, no members of the Sisterhood could be spared for the endeavour - the Null Maidens taxed by the devastation on Holy Terra itself, fighting tooth and nail to purify the throne world from the taint left behind by the traitors.

The inquisitor pushed her ship to its limits, racing against the dreams of fire, hoping that they could arrive before events escalated planetside. They all were hoping that either the prognostications were wrong, or that they were in time and could stomp out the cult before it could doom the planet. As so often in the past decades, it turned out to be a vain hope.

All felt the presence of the Enemy, not long after the strike cruiser broke warp and headed in-system. They debated possible courses of action during the long hours as their ship burned towards the tainted globe of Lithius Prime, debating tactical and strategic ramifications. Sure, they could drop cyclonic torpedoes, burn the planet, but that would rob the Imperium of an important stronghold in the subsector. Yet, did they have a choice? 

The question was decided when the sensors of the strike cruiser picked up the signals from planetside - loyalist forces were still down there, still fighting, albeit driven back. That fact decided it for the Astartes and Hunter contingent. Two hours, a detailed extrapolation of data, and a heated argument later, the  _ Sedna  _ took up position, and launched drop pods, along with dropships and Thunderhawks, heading straight for the central warp rift, hoping to stem the tide at its source.

++++++

Her head hurts with a distant throbbing ever since they arrived to orbit. She knows the reason, of course - she can clearly perceive the presence of the  _ other _ , the sweet coppery taste of shed blood, the sharp tang of burned brass, the heat of unbridled flames, the unchained fury. She knows what awaits them, she has told her suspicion to the others in the strategium of the  _ Sedna _ , before they decided to go in. She argued against it, tried to reason for the orbital bombardment - even though all knew that she wanted to be proven wrong, wanted to be convinced, wanted to land to  _ help _ . Still, she had a duty, and she would not shame her uncle by shirking said duty, even if she disliked it. She just hoped that the price would not be too steep.

The descent to the surface is a screaming insanity, as AA fire paints the swirling clouds with explosions and greasy black smoke, the reddish, hellish atmosphere torn by seeking pillars of blue lasers reaching for the incoming Imperial craft. Some are blown straight out of the sky, others carve furrows into the ground as they crash, yet a quick check on the vox elicits a small smile - close to three-fourths of their forces managed to land, and is pushing towards the portal and the Astartes bridgehead.

She forces herself and her teams to ever greater speed, carving across the deluded cultists like they were mere beowolves - and it’s not like the raving lunatics are more rational than the bestial Grimm. A not-insignificant part of her is grieving for them; if she could, she would try to turn them from the destructive Path drenched in Crimson tears. She steels herself, and motions her companions forward, checking quickly on them for injuries, signs of fatigue, finding little - Aura is very useful like that. She knows that the Guard is following them as fast as they can, but the environment slows down the armored columns - and she is not sure how long the Astartes can hold back the tide, impressive abilities notwithstanding. So, she slots a new magazine into her rifle, checks her tattered cloak, and presses onwards.

The clouds above churn with menace, the wind picking up as the Hunters advance under the scintillating skies, closing on the gate - and that’s when she notices. With widened eyes, a lot of small, seemingly innocuous details snap into a rather grim focus; images of recent bloodshed flood her memories, scenes where her teams and she herself killed simply for the sake of killing, slowing down their advance to hunt down stragglers, exulting in the rush of combat.

The sight of the vast plaza makes them all stop and pause for a moment, the image etching itself in their eyes and soul with painful clarity. They see it all in such detail that would be hard even with transhuman senses. The smoking, scorched impact sites of the drop pods. The mounds of bolt-riddled, chainsword-ruined flesh ringing the same. The trails of destruction heading towards the eagerly pulsing portal. The seething, suppurating mass of humans and Neverborn filling the plaza, cavorting in supplication before their overlords beyond. The towering obelisk at the center, drenched in blood, coated in viscera, shining with an eye-searing red light. The handful pockets of resistance that are the remaining Astartes, fighting back-to-back under the tide of insane violence bearing down on them.

The Hunters look on for maybe a handful of seconds, their leader trying to formulate a plan to minimize casualties and maximize their chances, but the portal’s heartbeat accelerates to an eager tempo, the rush of combat beating in their hearts, resonating in their souls, and she knows that it’s too late. The  _ other  _ steps forth from the immaterium, the world howling its pain under its tread. The towering creature throws back its bull-like head, and roars its fury to the skies - and a deluge of red answers from above. The giant’s presence invigorates the throngs at the plaza, and the still-existing beings there throw themselves with blind, zealous fury at the Astartes, or tear into each other, celebrating the presence of the massive, bloodthirsty behemoth with violence.  Waves of wrath batter at the minds of the loyalist Hunters, knocking out one, forcing three more onto their knees, and sending two more into frothing berserker rage, tearing into the friend and foe alike, before the sniper rifle booms twice in quick succession, putting them down hard.

The Huntress takes a deep breath foul with the orgy of war, liquid heat pooling low in her belly, as the prospect of the immediate future registers in her brain. She suppresses the unworthy impulse with bared teeth, ignoring the treacherous images swirling in her mind, mixing sacred and intimate with profane and violently abhorring. She reaches deep into the well of her soul, delving deeper into her Semblance than ever before - and in a flurry of swirling rose petals, she charges the beast, the boom of displaced air chasing her as the sniper rifle transforms into a gleaming scythe, her eyes igniting with silver fire that burns the Neverborn and tainted alike with righteous wrath as she carves a path of crimson ruin towards the beast at the portal.

She mows through the seemingly-frozen tableau of tainted humanity, snail-like Neverborn and Astartes, focused on the mighty servant of the Blood God before her, her scythe spinning to bite deep into its legs - only to be intercepted by the immense axe wielded with preternatural speed. The two weapons clash again and again, bone-white warpborn substance warring against Dust-infused adamantium, creating a perfect symphony of destruction amidst the tornado of red petals and crimson drops. 

Silver fire eats away at the essence of the daemon, eroding its presence, its power, its eternal existence - if it were beholden to any other of the Four, it would seek to disengage, to retreat, to flee. Instead, the Bloodthirster roars, boundless fury mixing with desire and determination in the soul-shaking sound. The psychic echoes travel across the surface of the world, leaving carnage in their wake as minds buckle or go into overdrive at the transmitted feelings that affect even trained Hunters and Astartes. Inquisitor Vasilisa screams in pain aboard her ship, blood flowing from her eyes and ears, the astropaths aboard reduced to gibbering wrecks.

Time seems to snap back into its regular motion at the plaza as the Huntress is forced to drop her Semblance, her Aura reserves running low, and now she is forced to push herself that much harder to keep up with the monster before her. She weaves and dodges the strikes of the axe seeking her life, fighting to suppress the unwelcome, half-buried emotions awoken by the fight. The daemon’s mere presence taints her, violates her memories, distorts her feelings, threatens to devolve her into a mindless husk only living to shed blood eternally as she walks a Crimson Path with ecstatic happiness. She will not accept that. She will not let this beast corrupt her. She will not let it harm another human - no matter the cost.

Her eyes blaze with silver butterfly wings as she’s using her scythe blade to brake as the daemon’s axe sends her flying, and she wades back into the fray, the gleaming blade of her weapon biting deep into immaterial flesh, before she propels herself higher and higher, climbing the colossal monster, carving bloody furrows into its ceramite-thick hide, pushing her Aura, her soul to its limits and beyond. She knows that she cannot keep up this pace for too long, yet she’s equally aware that to slow down, to let up means death - and not just for her, but for the whole world. And that is not something Ruby Rose will allow.

A column of silver power tears into the broiling, scintillating clouds obscuring the heavens, scouring away stones, metal, daemon, human, and Astartes alike, leaving only a scorched, empty circle where once an obelisk honored Chaos and a portal yawned to the warp.


	23. Enduring legacy

At times, she felt lonely, tired, betrayed. Her half-siblings, gone. Her friends, dead. Her mentors and partners, dust. Her father, missing. Everything was torn from her, and on some days, she just wanted to rage at the injustice of it all. Especially at her beloved father, who meant well, knew her well enough, and had entrusted her with his legacy, his duty, his dreams - and despite everything, deep within her soul she was all too aware that she would cease to exist before she failed that trust. After all, she herself dreamt and yearned for the same. 

The clarion call of war roused her once again, as so often in her long existence. She felt the sluggish mantle of sleepy inactiveness fade slowly, as her heart sped up, the power of an unborn sun flooding through her system. Awareness returned next, as her senses sharpened, the surrounding area snapping into clear focus, every minute detail catalogued and assessed for possible threats. 

People were rushing all around her, in a chaotic-seeming yet perfectly ordered ballet of preparations. She knew that soon enough, she would have to match her power and fury against the enemies of the Imperium - and once more, she would prevail. She could not, would not fail. She had promised her father, even though he was gone by the time she fully awoke again after that terrible night of Beacon. 

Her consciousness extended, taking stock of her body, meticulously checking each system in turn, looking for flaws, deficiencies, all the wear and tear caused by hundreds of years of almost-continual war. She felt deep satisfaction and pride when her diagnostics all showed green; as ever, her people took excellent care of her - and in turn, she would give her all to protect them from whatever enemy set its sight on them.

Weapons systems hummed to readiness, as the mighty engine of war groaned to life, its hull moaning with the stress of Dust-alloyed adamantite as she slowly rose to her feet. She could feel the presence within, enjoyed the welcome touch from the well-known minds who were as much of a part of her as her built-in systems, if not more. She could feel their determination, their eagerness, and the unshakeable trust and devotion towards her - and as always, she was relieved and humbled by their emotions.

The vast hangar echoed with the triumphant blare of her external warhorn, the floor trembling under her footsteps, and she felt her princeps open a communications channel, felt the other engines join the manifold, their presence dwarfed by her own.

“Rosa Aeterna will walk.”

And once again, the sentience that was once Penny Polendina marched to war in the name of her father’s Imperium.


End file.
